Shackled to you
by Xyncisthe
Summary: When the rescue mission ends up with less than satisfactory results, Haymitch Abernathy is forced to take it onto himself to rescue his annoying colleague. To make matters worse, Haymitch is forced to fight another war- a battle with the demons of his past. Will he fail and be consumed by his own rage and hatred?
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Hunger Games trilogy, which is trademarked by Suzanne Collins. I do not claim any ownership over them or the world of the Hunger Games. Please do not sue me because I really have nothing so..!

* * *

"This is team Alpha reporting in, we have all of them safely onboard. We are on course; over," Gale Hawthorne reported as he walked among the fragile and traumatized prisoners who were arranged systematically, in alphabetical order. Many of the prisoners were victors of the Hunger Games and some were aristocrats who rejected the games aggressively or as aggressively as people of the Capitol were capable of. However, what was truly startling was that none of these prisoners were spared; all of them were scrawny and malnourished, their skins thin and yellow, and their eyes were dull and lifeless. Indeed, an enemy to President Snow and the Hunger Games is an enemy to the Capitol. He gritted his teeth and shook his head as he reached the end of the order. There were more bodies at the end than in any other section and that was certainly understandable; these victims were tortured beyond recognition that it was near impossible to identify them. He glanced at the bodies, making a quick body count before picking up the clipboard to affirm the number of unidentified persons. He growled softly before exiting to return to the cockpit; for now his mission was complete.

* * *

"President Coin, the teams have returned," a soldier, perhaps a colonel or equivalent, reported solemnly as he maintained a professional stance in front of the important revolutionists, "may I have permission to proceed to phase 2- identification?"

A low whistle echoed through the room and all eyes landed on the victor. With his feet propped on the table, arms crossed across his chest and the chair balancing on its hind legs, was none other than the Mockingjay's mentor, victor of the Second Quarter Quell and 50th Hunger Games- Haymitch Abernathy. "Phew, saved us all a heck lot of trouble, yeah?" he grinned as he rocked forward, forcing the chair back onto all four and bringing his body closer to the table. "Don't have to be sending another bloody four teams out to collect your corpses, eh?" Crossing his fingers lightly, he propped his chin on his hands and stared coolly at the soldier from behind his long and dirty bangs, "What happened to returning in three weeks top?" His voice had turned cold and the stiff soldier began to tremble.

It was understandable and even, forgivable for the soldier's subtle reaction to the victor. This was the victor President Snow wanted to break by killing and taking everything that was precious to Haymitch but even Snow never succeeded in breaking him completely because Haymitch was the catalyst that brought together their revolution plan. The Capitol wanted to tame and control him by indulging and encouraging his drinking but they never did tame him and certainly did not control him; some years he would accidentally hurt or even kill a Capitol citizen or two in his drunken stupor and there was nothing the Capitol could do because their own darling President Snow protected him. Nothing ever ran smoothly where Haymitch Abernathy was concerned and it seems to affect even friendly plans. His selfish choice to move ahead of plans without even consulting or informing anyone during the 75th Hunger Games nearly sent everything spiraling out of control; Plutarch had had to hastily prepare a hovercraft and they had to leave some of the victors behind were among the chaos he brought. However, on hindsight, his desire to move ahead allowed him to hijack a hovercraft albeit ruthlessly and rescue the Mockingjay as the Capitol swarmed rapidly into the arena. Perhaps it is this characteristic that made many wary and suspicious of him; he is alike a snake- deadly and unpredictable. Perhaps even his loyalty is questionable because a man who has nothing to lose is a man who is loyal to only himself.

"_Well_?" The question jolted the soldier who stiffened visibly on impulse. He blinked rapidly and tried as he might to regain composure. He was afraid that much he acknowledged. This Haymitch Abernathy was a man not to be trifled with unlike the infamous clumsy drunkard the Capitol had known. This person was dangerous. Period.

"It... They had to be located. They were apparently kept and tortured in more than one underground prison," the soldier stuttered as he fought fiercely to break the eye contact with the victor. It was akin to having no weapons and facing a blood thirsty predator. God help him.

"Abernathy, stop chewing him," President Coin remarked coolly. "We are on course and our fellow revolutionists are with us. I'm not complaining, so _why should you_?" She for one was an impatient person who wanted things to proceed as promptly as possible. She did not care about the hows, whats, whos or whys; she just wanted the plan to unfold and all disputes among members can and will be shoved aside or ignored if possible.

The victor turned his head deliberately and held his gaze with the revolutionists' leader. Cold unfeeling eyes met clear piercing eyes. After what felt like a cold intense staring match, Haymitch blinked before his lips curled into a patronizing smile. "Oh very well, have it your way," he shrugged his shoulders carelessly, strolled towards the exit and stopped just briefly to whisper to the shaken soldier, "She may have let you off but _I_ haven't." In a louder voice, "See you around." A careless back wave and out the door he went.

As the door slid shut, Plutarch and the major released a shuddering breath of relief; neither knew they had been holding their breaths. President Coin looked at the empty chair, snorted and commanded the soldier, "Permission granted; proceed with phase 2." The major quickly and albeit too eagerly nodded his compliance and exited the room.

"That was a close one," Plutarch said weakly and winced when he realized how raspy his voice sounded, "Who knew he still had them?"

"A predator never loses its killer instincts," she mused as she watched the breathless Capitol man. A victor of the Hunger Games is a predator but when one includes brains, cunning and ruthlessness, the predator is a dangerous one. However, when you think of a Quarter Quell victor who triumphed the game, outsmarted his 'master' and lived to tell the tale of intense emotional and mental torture, and intimidates the other predators despite his usual drunken state; he is no longer _just_ a dangerous predator, he is a superior species of predator whose ruthlessness is incomparable and stands in his own league. He has no equal, no one to rub shoulders with and thankfully, such beasts are rare and few in between. One in 25 years.

"Perhaps, Abernathy..." she trailed quietly. She had no need to continue because the occupants in room knew exactly where that thought trail was headed. Haymitch Abernathy might just be the predator that preys on predators, and that beast might just be waking after sleeping for close to a quarter of a century.

* * *

Haymitch prowled his room while berating himself for losing the tight rein on his temper. How could he even have thought of losing his temper? Should he not be glad that the other victors were rescued? What reason was there for him- a person who has nothing left and cared for nothing, to be angry? So maybe the last thought was not entirely true but all the people who matter are here with him, so really what reason was there to lash out? Katniss was brought here safely by him and Peeta, no doubt, was brought here safely too since he was one of the main reason the rescue mission was even considered by that blasted Coin. There was no one else, everyone was here with him.

He ran a hand through his long tangled messy hair and sighed heavily, and frowned when his fingers seemed to be stuck among the snags. It had been ages since he last washed his hair, never mind showering. Taking a whiff of himself, Haymitch nearly hissed at the stench. Good grief! Even in all his drunken episodes whether in the Capitol or in district 12, he was never as foul smelling. Then again, if he was honest, he had to thank that...woman for watching over and taking care of him. _Effie... Trinket_. That woman whom he loved to annoy and the only woman he allowed to touch him while he was unconscious. Perhaps, she is the only one whose opinions, although ridiculous at times, matter to him. "_Effie_..." Haymitch breathed her name as he violently shook himself out of his thoughts. Of course! How could he forget her? "That Gale boy would transport her; she's on the list," he mused as he began unbuttoning his dirty shirt. "Better freshen up or I'll never hear the end of her tirade. I'll see you soon, sweetheart." He yanked open his wardrobe, snatched a pair of pants and a shirt and quickly made his way to the adjoining toilet. "Then again, you might not want to see me..."

Freshening up was strangely easy despite his trembling hands and as he dressed up, Haymitch could not help but stare at his reflection. The usual lazy smirk. The tired face of a man who has seen more than he should in a lifetime. A worn out yet still very much fit and muscular body with ancient scars that ran ugly across his chest and torso. However, despite all of them, what captivated his attention most was his own grey eyes. He hardly ever had the chance to see them because it was either his fringe was too long and fell unceremoniously and stayed stubbornly over his eyes or he simply did not have the heart to. After all, looking at the mirror, all he could see was the face of a murderer who killed and stood over the corpses of forty-seven children and a conspirator and accomplice for the deaths of another for forty-eight children. He closed his eyes briefly and sighed heavily. "Soon, it will end, soon," he crooned softly to himself. "The cries and screams will begin to silent themselves." _Soon, very soon_.

Upon opening his eyes, Haymitch noticed how his eyes looked at him with a startling clarity and awareness. His bloodshot eyes seemed so acutely aware of its surrounding that they felt surreal to him. Surely, a violent heavy drinker such as himself would definitely show signs of wild unrestrained rage instead of the piercing calmness. It was unthinkable how his eyes could defy logic when even his stomach was sporting a pouch, although unnoticeable. Perhaps, scars, trauma, nightmares, pain and loss were not the only takeaways he got from the arena but also the constant acute awareness of his surrounding. Were his eyes this clear even when his mind was too muddled and he was too drunk to even think incoherently? As he continued fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, his brilliant mind offered him an answer to his myriad of questions. Ask Effie Trinket.

* * *

"... Elena Foster, Eliot Hotcher and Ester Pitrre. Alright, all confirmed."

Haymitch stood in silence, leaning casually against the wall as he listened to the roll call. He was in the room where all the victims whose first name starts with letter E. When the roll call ended, he frowned and approached the doctor who was carrying the clipboard of names. "I think you missed a name," he drawled as he tilted his head to the side and crossed his arms across his chest. It would diminish his threatening pose greatly if she saw how his hands were shaking from the withdrawal. Stupid law; since when has drinking ever been a crime?

"I'm certain I did not, Mr Abernathy," the doctor assured as she unconsciously took a step away from the intimidating man. Ever since Plutarch discovered the locations of the past victors, the drunk mentor had been edgy and shockingly sober. Haymitch became even more...intimidating when President Coin granted permission to carry out the rescue mission. The doctor, like most of the others, didn't quite understand his change in behaviour. Sure, they didn't like the useless drunk but when one compared both versions of Haymitch, they would most likely choose the less dangerous, a lot less intimidating and certainly a lot more predictable.

"When I think you did, it means you either repeat the roll call or give me the blasted list!" the victor growled as he crossed the distance between them with a foot forward. His face was menacing, his lips curled into a snarl yet she found his grey bloodshot eyes clear, clam and aware. How strange was it that the windows to his soul displayed emotions different from the rest of the body? Shaking, she thrust the clipboard to him and scampered away, a good and safe distance away.

Haymitch's eyes scanned the list of names and swore under his breath. Sure, there were names listed that did not have a tick beside them which meant that these people were probably tortured badly and were still classified as unidentifiable people. However, a particular name did not look as if it was cancelled or crossed out but rather it looked like it was omitted out. Did he not explicitly state that she be rescued because and only because she was the escort of the Mockingjay? Coin had approved to his demand and reasoning, so why was that name not printed on the list? Something was amiss, something was _very_ wrong; and he would be damned if he could not even uncover a simple fault. He frowned as he called the doctor who timidly made her way to him. "Is this all the names of those they were supposed to rescue?" When she nodded, he growled softly. Someone had bludgeoned his plan, someone had defied and he would definitely flush the rat out.

"Perhaps Mr Abernathy, the person could still be in the Unidentified Persons section?" she said carefully, fearing that she might trigger his rage. As far as she was concerned, she did not have to look at him to know he was riding the waves of rage. After all, she could feel his rage and it was intimidating and crushing. Haymitch blinked and the doctor sighed in relief and finally dared to stare at him. This man was a victor and one who could change the atmosphere of a room with a single blink; from a terrifying and intense atmosphere to a breathable and normal one. He nodded his thanks and left the doctor rooted with a single thought. Haymitch Abernathy, victor of the Second Quarter Quell, is dangerously unpredictable.

* * *

"Mr Abernathy, may I be of assistance?"

Haymitch barely glanced at the doctors while he strode through the room. His grey eyes roving quickly over the bodies and his ears twitched ever so slightly when he noted the scars. Some scars were blackened, others were still stretched wide opened and bleeding. There were those whose skin was so thin and seemed to have to stretch painfully across the limbs, while some had their bodies and limbs mangled together. Would her body be just as terrible or worse considering her relations to the Mockingjay...and him? He released a harsh shot of breath as he began reeling back.

He had caused another person to suffer. He brought the terrors down on an innocent person; a defenceless and perhaps ignorant woman. Capitol or not, he was her tormentor. He winced as he quickly turned and fled the room. _Why_? Why had he not anticipated that they would turn the sword against her and punished her? Why had he chosen to ignore his own warnings about leaving her behind? What nonsense did he entertained; leave her behind with no knowledge about the revolution and the uprisings because it was the only way to protect her from the wrath of the districts. He had assumed the Capitol and Snow would spare her because she was an escort and a Capitol citizen, had zero knowledge about the revolution and the revolutionists, and...

Haymitch stopped stomping abruptly, and shuddered at the mere thought of the last reason and he feared that thought would be reason enough for Snow to be merciful to her. He should have known better than anyone; Snow was everything but merciful. Snow is courteous and even gracious but he was certainly merciless, and Haymitch knew this better than anyone, having learnt it the hard way. "Damn it!" Haymitch swore as he punched the wall before he allowed the fist to fall and leaned his forehead heavily against the wall. His hands trembled and he watched coldly as the blood dripped from his knuckles. He no longer knew, much less cared, if his body shook from withdrawal or rage but what he wanted to know was- who or what was he raging about. Was he furious with himself for leaving her behind or for assuming Snow would spare her? As he began to probe deeper, his body slackened and he twisted around so that he slid off the wall, sat on the cold floor of the sterile district 13 and leaned his back on the wall. He knew his mistake, he acknowledged that leaving her behind was a crime but had he not rectified it by having Coin approved of her rescue?

Haymitch shook his head as the realization dawned on him; someone had gone behind his back and bludgeoned his rectification. There was a squirt that hated the escorts but who would dare to go against a victor's word? Another victor. Then again, he was not just a victor; he was a Quarter Quell victor as much as he detested that title or praise but at times such as these, the title did come handy. Another usual Hunger Games victor would think twice of going against him; hell even Brutus, Finnick, Johanna and the district 1's siblings: Gloss and Cashmere would rather walk away than engage him in a bloody duel. Haymitch reluctantly ruled out the idea of a victor challenging his order and instead turned his mind towards district 12. Someone abhorred her greatly, dared to deny him and certainly had to be a high rank officer of the rescue team. _Who_? "Gale Hawthorne!" he hissed the name. Only that...that vindictive person fit the description and Haymitch swore so colourfully even Katniss would blush a deep scarlet. He would affirm his suspicion and then go for the jugular but he is never wrong when he was sure of his suspicions.

* * *

"I remember I told you I haven't let you off the hook, didn't I?"

The soldier shuddered as he slowly turned on his heel to regard the victor. He gulped as Haymitch pushed himself deliberately off the wall. As the supposedly drunk victor stalked forward with an unexpected feral grin and a face clouded with dark malicious intent, the soldier felt himself unable to move. The sheer fear pulsating through him as he stood rooted as if he was a prey whose fate was already sealed and waited for the menacing jaws of the predator. Closing his eyes tightly, the soldier waited for the victor's strike but a full minute passed and the strike never came. The echoing footsteps had also ceased and the soldier could hear his laboured panting bouncing off the walls. Peeking through his eyelashes timidly, he looked at the bored face of Haymitch Abernathy and before he could even recomposed himself and released the tension from his body, his soldier instincts told him not to lower his guard despite the lax looking victor. "Can I help?" he stuttered as he felt fear swelling in the pits of his stomach again and he struggled with the feeling of nausea. If all victors carried such presence, the soldier was not too sure he wanted to share the presence with even one of them ever again.

"You were part of the rescue team?" Haymitch started as he leaned against the wall to put some space between him and the cowering soldier. He nearly snorted when he noticed how the soldier was shaking with fear as if he would faint any time soon. Why the poor boy had such a reaction, Haymitch did not know and he was not too sure he wanted to know. After all, nothing was more important than finding out the identity of the daring little rat. Occupied with his thoughts, Haymitch nearly missed the timid nod from the soldier. "And you were one of those who were actively searching and rescuing them from their cells?" Again the soldier gave a shaky nod and Haymitch was close to losing his patience. What use was it to have a trembling soldier? It was not as if he was threatening bodily harm! Blast it! "Did you see the Mockingjay's escort?"

"I did; she was kept in the same section as the rest. I had the shackles removed, was going to carry her," the soldier finally mumbled as he stared at his boots like a child awaiting a suitable punishment from the parents for a wrong doing. Haymitch waited patiently or rather as patiently as he could. There was no doubt that there was an unspoken _but_ that shadowed those words, and it was the words that followed that word that interested Haymitch. Looking up, Haymitch noticed the tears that were pooling in the young man's eyes and somehow Haymitch felt as if he could envisioned what had happened during the mission. "I..._couldn't_." Haymitch frowned. What exactly did the whelp mean by he couldn't? What was the obstacle? Before Haymitch could voice his concerns, the soldier beat him to the punch. "_He_ said she was not on the list and therefore, should not be saved."

Haymitch swore as he slammed his fist into the wall. He was the obstacle. He was the reason this poor boy was tearing up. He was the reason she was not rescued. Damn it! Haymitch repeatedly punched the wall as he felt rage bubbled and overwhelmed him. As he punched, he gradually felt the pain on his knuckles and slowed down the pace of his punches, and a new feeling of calmness took over. The sensation of pain and rage were so familiar that Haymitch felt himself getting giddy. Was it excitement or relief that he was feeling? Perhaps it was neither since it was illogical for him to feel them, given the current set of circumstances. If he was truly honest, it felt...good. It felt calm. It felt...powerful. God help him, he felt the exhilarating adrenaline rush that coursed through him while he was in there. Turning so slowly, he smiled gently at the quivering soldier and crooned softly, "_Who_?"

"Colonel Hawthorne. Please save her! She had it as bad as _them_!"

Gripping the sleeves, the soldier finally broke down as he burrowed his head in Haymitch's chest. With a gentle smile which could easily be mistaken as cruel, Haymitch rudely disengaged the poor whelp from his shirt and sneered, "That's not your privilege." Leaving behind the sobbing young man on the floor, the victor of the Second Quarter Quell strode away confidently. He had his answer, and Hell would freeze over before he made the rat a quivering fool. Gale Hawthorne will be reminded who he was dealing with because Haymitch Abernathy was feeling less than merciful today and before the day ended, someone would die.

* * *

"President?" Gale bowed lightly as he came into the room and noticed only one seat was empty. Haymitch Abernathy, the useless drunk mentor of Katnip, was absent. "May I-"

"Gale Hawthorne," Plutarch interrupted as he waved for him to come closer, "Could you please explain this?"

The list of names of those to be rescued was placed on the table and Gale saw his signature at the bottom of it. His signature of confirmation and acknowledgement. He could not see what the matter was; he had rescued everyone deemed worthy of rescue. He frowned as he looked from Plutarch to President Coin to the other victors who were seated and finally back to Plutarch. He noticed some of the grim faces of the victors despite their lazy posture and the indifferent look of President Coin but the concern face of Plutarch set his warning bells ringing. Something was wrong, _something_ was very wrong and he had better figured out fast.

"The poor boy doesn't quite understand, does he Plutarch?" Finnick sniggered as he swirled his glass of water lazily while he propped his head on his hand. The other victors were either looking at Gale in sympathy or simply shaking their heads in amusement. "Would you be able to hold your own against a victor?" Finnick continued his condescending tone and Gale frowned harder, " A victor who is feeling more than ruthless." This encouraged more snickering from the victors who were giving their malicious grins while some remained looking sympathetic if not more than before.

Gale gulped as he felt the gears in his head spinning ever harder and faster. A victor was angry. Was a blood bath going to occur? Surely, no one would dare to disturb a hair on him. God forbid! No one would even dream of touching him as long as Katnip explicitly maintained that he was her best friend. Surely, no one here would want to incur the wrath of Katnip and upset Coin, yes? At this point of his train of thoughts, Gale suddenly felt a bubble of cockiness swell in his chest as his grin became smug. Who knew keeping a long lasting friendship with Katnip was such a blessing? "Let me clue you in, you left a babe behind, didn't cha?" Finnick's words burst into his head and Gale found his smug grin disappearing quickly when he saw the lazy smile that the handsome victor was spotting. Somehow that smirk had Gale reeling back and Gale was not even sure why. Had the catastrophe not been averted? If something were to happen, as if it anything even could, surely Katnip would interfere and stop anyone from trying to hurt him. His friendship with her, and their closeness, merited some sort of protection for him, no? Nevertheless, how dare Finnick Odair accused of him leaving someone behind! He did his job with pride; "No failures." that was his motto.

Gale blinked and tilted his head to the side as he tried his hardest to recall. He left someone behind? Who? He had seen over his rescue team and he had saved all the tributes and victors. There was no one he left apart from those whose names did not grace the list and those he deemed unnecessary. Surely, President Coin would agree with him that those left out of the rescue were part of the inevitable collateral damage. He dared a sneaky glance at the apathetic but calm woman. Yeap, she did look like she would agree with him so there was no worry was there?

"You were in charge of this mission, weren't you?" a soft whisper blew gently against his earlobe but Gale felt his hair stand on ends. The door slid shut and Haymitch Abernathy breezed past him and settled in the empty chair.

Gale noticed how the room suddenly became a lot chiller and quieter. Finnick Odair had stopped sniggering and nearly everyone seemed to sympathize with him. If he did not believe it before, he completely believed it now; something was definitely wrong but for the life of him, he could not figure it. A startling fact was that everyone including the president and himself seemed to be waiting for Abernathy's words; it was as if everyone was hanging onto his every word and action. Instinct told him that the faster he answered the question, the faster he would leave the suffocating room. Nodding slowly, Gale held his breath for the next question.

"You acknowledged and signed this list after you checked it, didn't you?" A nod. "You were the one who wrote down all the names?" Another nod. "And you attended and sat through the meeting while we were deciding on who to rescue?" Another nod. "You left a name out, didn't you? _Why_?"

Gale felt his eyes widened at the last question. Of course! How could he have been so dense? The victors had tried to warn him in their own ways, even that Capitol man had but he, as usual, had waved them off in his arrogance. Finnick's clue or rather warning should have set his brain gears moving but... "She's a Capitol scum! She's a murderer!" The words tumbled out of his dry lips as he hurriedly tried to defend himself. The words sounded like a reiteration and a chant that he had repeated all over his head to convince himself but Gale was far from the point of caring how those words sounded to him.

"_We're_ all murderers," Finnick spoke softly and Gale swallowed.

"You are victors, not a willing murderer, Odair! _She_ happily ushers the kids to their deaths! She, like all the other Capitol scums, bet on the kids!" Gale sputtered as he rushed forward and slammed his palms on the table top. Effie Trinket, the vile woman who turned Katnip into a murderer. Effie Trinket who forcefully stole the peace and innocence from Katnip. Effie Trinket who killed and destroyed Katnip. "_She _smiled like all of those Capitol during the Reaping! Hell! She was _ecstatic_ when Katnip volunteered last year!"

"Whether willing or not, victor or not, I am still a murderer!" Finnick roared as he stood up and pushed his chair back with one hard shove, "She ushered, _I killed_!" The glass that had been in his hand was crushed and he did not even glance to see the shards that penetrated his palm. Finnick was furious not because Hawthorne assumed that his friend enjoyed ushering children to their deaths but more so because that...boy had drawn the line that separated the same sin. Since, the victors and escorts had murdered children be it directly or otherwise, was there a need to differentiate murder? He, for one, had killed the other tributes of the 65th Hunger Games in cold blood so how different was that from an escort who led children to their deaths? Murder was murder, there was no way two ways about it. How could Hawthorne excused the victors' killings as unwilling and claimed the escorts' as willing? What of the mentors' failure; was that willing or unwilling?

"If a mentor fails, would that make the mentor a willing or unwilling murderer?" Finnick challenged as he righted his chair and slowly dropped into his seat, "If a mentor chooses to sacrifice one of the tribute to give the other an additional advantage, is the mentor a willing murderer or not?" The victors at the table glanced at Finnick as they kept quiet. A victor by Hawthorne's definition is an unwilling murderer. However, if a mentor chooses not to help the tributes for whatever reason, what does that make the mentor? A willing murderer since he ushered them to their deaths, an unwilling murderer since he had no choice in the matter or...?

"Trust you to create controversial issues, Odair," Haymitch drawled as he sliced the silence in the room and brought everyone's attention back onto the forgotten subject. With a deliberate move of his head, Haymitch glanced around the table to ensure he had everyone's attention again before he continued. Maintaining a cool stare with the panting Hawthorne boy, he continued, "You left out her name, didn't you? When you saw her in prison, you _chose_ to leave her behind, didn't you?"

"She _deserved_ it!" Gale shouted while Haymitch's face remained as stoic and cool as President Coin's. "She _isn't _necessary to save! She's _not _worthy of rescue! She _doesn't_ deserve to be rescued!" Why could no one see his point? Why could none of them accept his justification? Were they all entranced by such a...disgusting monster? That scum deserves everything her beloved Capitol dished out on her! She ruined everything! She ruined his life plans!

"She doesn't deserve? She isn't worthy?" Haymitch echoed incredulously as his head tilted slightly to the side as if he was considering, "And whose opinions are these because I can name you one very important reason why she should and deserved to be rescued: she is the escort to Katniss Everdeen, the Mockingjay and symbol of this revolution."

"_Precisely_! That piece of trash destroyed Katnip!" Gale shouted even louder and even he heard his own voice straining. His throat burnt as his eyes glared angrily at the clear and calm grey eyes of the drunk. "And you're too drunk to realize that! Why can't you just accept that I did all this with the best intentions of all of us?"

"That person you call a piece of trash gave Katniss the opportunity to be greater than life, whether accidentally or not. Had it not been for that person you call Capitol scum, do you think the districts and victors would unite to create the second rebellion?" Haymitch asked softy and the other victors moved away noticeably. They knew better than anyone that when a sober Haymitch's voice turned soft, it meant only one thing- fight or flee situation. A sober Haymitch is a victor but a sober Haymitch with a soft voice is a deadly Quarter Quell victor, and there is a difference. One would probably punch you once if provoked, the other would send you back to your maker and that is only when he feels _very _merciful. "If not for that undeserving person, do you think your beloved Katnip would live until today? Hell knows how many times Katniss had said things that would have motivated them to put a bullet through her, and that unworthy person had saved her one time too many."

No one said anything after Haymitch's cold and malicious tirade, even Gale Hawthorne could only pant. A full half an hour past before President Coin cleared her throat and addressed the Mockingjay's mentor, "There is nothing else for you to do, Abernathy. There is nothing you can do and she is unfortunately part of the inevitable collateral damage. We will continue onto the next phase with or without her."

"I'll just have to drag her out of it then," he said carelessly as if that was common knowledge, "and _I_ should've known better than to ask a boy to do it. A victor would have certainly been successful." This elicited a round of sniggering and amused faces from the victors, and even Plutarch allowed a smile to grace his lips, and Gale had the courtesy of blushing. After all, to be humiliated by a proclaimed useless victor in front of other victors was simply too much for a prideful boy.

"You will do nothing of the sort. I will not allow you to derail the revolution," President Coin challenged Haymitch who looked at her nonchalantly as if he had expected her to reject his idea, "You may be her mentor but I'm the President here. You will continue leading your force forward." She had no choice but to lay that card down. No one will rebel against her; and by God's grace, not at this stage of the revolution she had dreamed for many years!

"If you knew how important I am in your plans, you would've sent someone much more capable than a mere wannabe," Haymitch snorted as his eyes bored into hers. "Since your chosen can't do a good job, I guess I've gotta be the man to do it." He smirked as he walked round the table, intentionally walking behind her to whisper an after thought, "You're more than welcome to _try_ to stop me." With a swagger and a careless back hand wave, he left the room.

The victors shared a look before they started laughing as if they were sharing an inside joke during the intense talk. It was hard to say with conviction that the meeting was fiery or cold, but it was certainly intense. Even Heavensbee was smiling and his eyes twinkled with amusement. The only people who were not sharing the joy were President Coin and Gale Hawthorne and that was expected. The humiliation Haymitch gave Hawthorne is a feat not to be forgotten or forgiven so easily and quickly by the boy. If anything, Gale hated Katniss' mentor even more than before.

For President Coin, the spine chilling whisper had her staring at the vacant chair. Haymitch Abernathy was the only remaining Quarter Quell victor and the only one she could not control or tame; everyone here in her district had someone but he had no one and therefore, had nothing to lose. It was this unique thing that made it impossible for her to bend him to her will. However, on hindsight, perhaps having Haymitch Abernathy invading the Capitol would serve her purpose; complete control over everyone in district 13 and ultimately having two of her greatest obstacles obliterating each other. Yes, Haymitch Abernathy's recklessness might very well push her revolution to completion faster than expected and she need only to depend on the beast waking completely and take control.

* * *

My first fanfic chapter! My following chapters I suppose would be shorter than this one because for the prologue, it seemed difficult to do a break. Sorry about the lengthy prologue.

Please review. Thank you.


	2. Chapter 1

Author's note: Here is the next installment and I think future chapters shall be as long as this or thereabout. I shall however, try to write longer chapters.

* * *

At half past midnight, a lonely carriage was travelling through the Capitol. The black stallions neighed once in awhile but neither the footman nor the carriage occupant was displeased. In fact, the occasional snorts from the pair of horses were welcoming in the quiet, damaged Capitol. Houses that once looked impressive in the heart of the Capitol now looked comparable to the best houses in the poorer districts. The roads that were once immaculate were now riddled with cracks and holes making the supposedly smooth journey a little too bumpy and uncomfortable.

"How much further?" a soft question as the gloved fingers parted the curtains slightly and a pair of eyes peeked out but there was not much to see except for silhouettes of the buildings. There was no one walking about nor was there any bedroom that was lit. It was as if they had entered a ghost town for even the breeze was cold and quiet.

"Not very far, my lord," the footman replied as he steered the horses around the bend, "A few blocks away at most."

"Very good; but remember that we are now in the Capitol," the noble replied quietly as he pulled the curtains back and leaned against the carriage window, "You will address me only as Mr Viktore or Viktore." Viktore did not need a reply to know that his footman obeyed his orders. As he closed his eyes, a jerk and couple of whines alerted him that they had arrived at the destination. The door opened and Viktore walked out with his cane and looked around. The building was still as he remembered, within watching distance of the victor's tower. With a satisfied nod, he dismissed his footman and entered the building.

* * *

Having lived beside the victor's tower for close to two decades, Xyncisthe Viktore was impressed that his apartment house had survived the bombings. After all, the tower was targeted specifically by the rebels and Xyncisthe stood in his balcony and looked at the tower longingly. He had memories of it; both the fond and terrible. There was once when he had the pleasure of taking the lift up to all the temporary abodes of the escorts, mentors and tributes. How often had he spied on the victors from this balcony just to be in the know of who they met, what they did in their free time and simply what their interests were. There were times when he passed by them on the streets and too often he had to restrain himself from going over and talking to them. It was not that they were unapproachable or unfriendly nor were they superior in any way, but he felt that there was no point in talking if he could not get close and personal with them. What was the point in keeping frivolous relationships?

Xyncisthe sighed as he pushed that thought away. If he continued pursuing it, he knew he would end up as one of those live displays – live execution and torture for simply having a thought that could be implied as going against the Capitol. After a few more quiet moments of standing nude in his balcony, he turned to enter his apartment.

Standing in front of the mirror while dressing up for the bed, Xyncisthe ran a hand through his short platinum hair. He had shaved his beard completely after he realized the fashion trend now was clean shave. Despite not placing much importance in keeping up with fashion, Xyncisthe understood that fashion trends could very well be his lifeline. As long as he kept up the facade of following the trend like an avid believer, President Snow had no reason to suspect him of treason against the Capitol. It also meant that he could still run around the Capitol picking up useful information.

Pulling a shirt over, he ensured that it covered his body and especially his torso. Having people seeing his scars would make his mission and his life a little more difficult than necessary because what would he tell the press? What could one of the poster boys of the Capitol tell about his multiple scars? He shook his head and climbed into bed. Worry about tomorrow's trouble tomorrow.

Turning to his side, he switched the bedside lamp off and stared at the twelve floor of the victor's tower longingly. Was this really the right thing to do? Was this the _only_ way? _He_ said it would save Effie Trinket and Xyncisthe had willingly and quickly believed. It was as if he wanted to believe simply because... After all, he had known Effie for more than a decade and she was his friend as well as his favourite escort. It was really brainless to know why she was his favourite; she was not an air head like the rest and she was certainly the most beautiful and her eyes always twinkled with mirth and intelligence.

Just as he was about to welcome sleep, Xyncisthe jerked awake and stared wearily at the bedside phone. Now that he was in the capitol, it was only right he behaved like them. As the saying goes, 'When in Rome, do as the Romans do.' He breathed in deeply before he picked up the phone and dialled a number he had remembered by heart. He waited and waited and...

"Hello? Felix Lockhart speaking."

"I apologize for the untimely call but I am back. Viktore is back," Xyncisthe answered as he braced himself for the usual squeals and the receiver of the call did not fail him. A series of shrilling squeals and exclamations burst through the phone and Xyncisthe had to hold the phone at arms length. Forcing himself to count very, _very _slowly to ten, he waited for the other person to calm down before he continued, "I was thinking; since I'm back maybe we could dine sometime?" Xyncisthe Viktore nearly wanted to smack himself for even inviting the peacock for dinner but he soon consoled himself that it was only polite. After all, the people of Capitol are courteous and gracious and he would be just as well mannered.

"Why don't you attend my 45th birthday? That way we could dine together beneath...perhaps, another moonless night?" Xyncisthe sighed quietly before he agreed and bid farewell. Returning the phone to its cradle, Xyncisthe could only sigh once more. He was in for a rough week in the Capitol and there was no one he could blame but himself.

* * *

Morning came no sooner than the day before and Xyncisthe was already up and moving before the sun fully rose. Standing still under the warm running water, he absently ran his fingers across the glaring scar on his torso. They told him to be proud of it since it was a souvenir of sorts. They said it was his-

"Damn it!" he cursed softly under his breath as he stopped the train of thoughts from wandering further. How many nights had he been kept wide awake, and how many days had he had to struggle with those horrors? He had them reined in for a while now, and he would continue keeping a leash on them. Breathe. He commanded and willed his lungs as he rested his palms on the water glistening wall. It would be humiliating and a waste of effort if he lost control and composure now, considering that he had spent years mulling over the perfect way to execute his revenge. They will pay for everything, threefold and none of them would be spared; of that he was sure.

"Viktore?" Xyncisthe turned his head very slowly as he watched the shadow on the door grew darker and he struggled to hold onto his smooth mask of calm and aristocratic composure. No one must uncover his truth until the time is ripe; no one at all.

"Lockhart?" he forced his voice to remain balanced and frigid while he walked out of the shower and wrapped a small towel lazily and loosely around his hip, "Whatever is the ma-" He was cut short as he blinked at the crowd that had gathered in his private chamber. He looked at all of them and his lips curled into a frown.

Ms Felicia, one of those moderators who were in charge of ensuring all the sponsors paid dutifully and followed the protocols of betting. Of course this entailed that she was also one of them that set the price of the items for the Hunger Games. She had a history with him and one that made him shudder with disgust. They had shared a bed where his body had been pleasured by her and she had enjoyed the rough tussle and taken his virginity. Of course, she did not have the honour of taking his innocence since someone else had beat her to it. Nevertheless, they had spent many nights and mornings sharing warmth but it had left a bitter taste in his mouth when he came to his senses. She might not have been one of those directly involved in his lost of innocence but she was certainly one of them who enjoyed his post-transformation.

Xyncisthe shook his head and regarded the next person warily. Ms Petunia was an old acquaintance whom he had no desire to reconnect, much less meet. She was a forty-something year old woman who was married with three kids when they met, and yet she was his sugar mummy. She presented him with every material thing he wanted and more, and all she ever asked of him were the comforts of his bed and his presence. Somehow he used to believe she was as broken as him (therefore she was a kindred spirit) and how she ardently loved him. However, that fairy tale ended as soon as he found out she was one of those women whose husband was fucking her and many other women. However, it ended with a blistering shock as soon as he found out that she had used him as her revenge on her husband's infidelity and gloated her possession of sorts over one of the rising poster boys. For awhile he was unsure if he should grieve for a lost false love or be relieved that he was forever rid of a woman who thoroughly deserved her darling husband who was and still is fucking her and countless other women. Of course now he was wiser and he was certain he was relieved although a small part of him did grieve the night his rage commanded him to break it off and end it all for good.

Finally, Xyncisthe's eyes landed on the charming looking poster boy who used to be his colleague and senior in that industry. Felix Lockhart one of the other darling Capitol boys. The only male who seemed pretty enough to model alongside Effie Trinket. The only one who preened like a peacock for Victoria's Secret. Xyncisthe still could not believe he was jealous of such a pretty boy when he was now rightfully titled as one of the most wanted bachelors in Capitol. Women and girls, both single and otherwise, had proudly and openly declared, "Viktore is just oozing sex!" Until now, he was still unsure what and how exactly he should be feeling. Was it disgust or pride? After all, for four years in the industry, Felix Lockhart had made it clear that Xyncisthe would never break through onto the big stage as long as poster boy number one: Felix Lockhart was still in employment but all that changed when Effie Trinket...

No, this was not about him and his... Effie Trinket was not his as far as anyone was concerned and he would rather she remained free than be bound to any man or woman, if her sexual preference was as such. What was he saying? How could he refer to her in the past tense? She _is_ still alive, he had to put all his faith in that hope if he had nowhere else to place them.

Anyway, back to his history with Felix Lockhart. Considering the industry they were in, it was really no surprise that their colleagues were brazenly intimate and affectionate. However, Lockhart had used his body since Lockhart was very much attracted to the manly sort of body. As a junior who wanted to break onto the big stage, Xyncisthe had followed Lockhart's orders to the T and had been sexually abused. Oh no, not in those kinky ways but rather Lockhart had used Xyncisthe's body to reach his own repeated orgasms and never allowed the younger man to release. For days on end, Xyncisthe was tortured and he found solace in the liquor and wine that were apparently free flowing in the industry. The only reason Xyncisthe remained in the industry was for his revenge but now, the reason extended to collecting information about the unexplainable disappearance of Effie Trinket. Then again, by some twisted fate and despite the burning resentment, they ended up as...

Xyncisthe sighed heavily as he hardened his stare... Could he really call Lockhart his friend? Or was the man merely an acquaintance? Never mind the answer but the man had the gall to look cheeky and offered a weak smile. "Couldn't all of you wait outside?" Xyncisthe asked as he opened the doors of his walk in wardrobe and ran a long finger across the the clothes absently. When none of them answered, he removed the towel that was shielding his genitals and casually put on his boxers and trousers. He was not at all offended or appalled at their presence in his room and ogling at his naked body but he still felt irritated. All of them had the pleasure and luxury of touching and ravishing the body so, he felt he had a right to comfortably strut naked in his room. Perhaps the only good thing he could think of this situation was that he did not have to explain the scars on his body to them since they knew about them better than anyone. After all, each of them had tried to mark him as theirs...

Snatching a dress shirt from the hanger, he quickly buttoned it and grabbed the coat that lied on his vanity. Holding the door of his bedroom opened, he gave them a sly smile and with mock politeness ushered them out. All of the uninvited guests from his past left the room meekly and reluctantly but just as Felix was leaving, Xyncisthe curled his hand around the neck and slammed Felix into the wall. "The next time anyone comes into my room by your invitation, I'll send you to your maker in the most cruel way," Xyncisthe threatened with a soft smile that chilled the bones of the poor man, "_I promise_." Just to send his point home, Xyncisthe shoved the man higher on the wall before throwing him onto the floor and headed into his living room to play host with his million dollar smile plastered on his face.

Felix rubbed his bruised neck as he watched his friend walked away. He had actually thought he was staring into Death in the eye and knew Viktore had spared him only because that man was feeling merciful. For a man aged one and forty, Viktore was still very much strong and fit. Touching the back of his head, he felt the sticky liquid and flinched. He had really crossed the line this time and it was just his fortune that his friend was feeling a little kinder today. However, what was most terrifying was not meeting Death, being suffocated or even bruised and threatened but the mere fact that Viktore had laid down the "I promise." card. That move was the deadliest only because the man always honoured his promise and even Death will not stand as an obstacle. If possible, Viktore would certainly go through Hell and back if it meant he would honour his promises. "You're one deadly honourable man, Viktore."

* * *

If there was anything remotely interesting to do in the Capitol, it was playing host; and Xyncisthe Viktore, Viscount of Kausitus, Capitol darling and one of the most sought after bachelor loved it. Well, perhaps his first title really held no importance in the Capitol since Kausitus is a place really far and not many people heard, never mind knew, of Kausitus. Therefore, not many knew he was a viscount but Xyncisthe was not displeased with it. In fact, he was quite glad since the lack of nobility allowed a lot more mobility and freedom in the Capitol. No one would try to stop him from going to a shoddy, back alley bar when the extravagant ones were available, nor would anyone try to persuade him to drink the finer liquor when all he needs is just the hard and strong liquor.

However strange or bemusing it was, a poster boy was lower in hierarchy than a viscount and held considerably less power, yet, had more freedom than a noble. A poster boy was neither too high nor too low to do anything; he was just the right sort of guy to probe everywhere without looking suspicious. He could go wherever he liked whenever he liked with whoever he liked and no one would question him. He could talk to nearly everyone at ease and ask any question and the crowd would simply assumed he cared for their thoughts...not that it was a very far-fetched assumption. Needless to say, Xyncisthe Viktore most precious treasure was his poster boy status and it would take a lot for him to abandon it.

"It has been quite a while since we last met, and I wonder, how are you?" Xyncisthe asked politely and quite soon the pleasantries were traded. He enquired on each of their healths, their families well being and of course how their lives were; not that he was particularly interested, it was mere politeness that ordered him to. It was the only way to start any conversation in the Capitol because it seemed as if graciousness was one of the most, if not the most important virtue.

They informed Xyncisthe of the newest trend despite the ongoing chaos in their city. Apparently, his noble and regal attire were the new in as was the colours grey, black and white. It was supposed to tie in with the current theme the city was sporting, whatever it was. One thing led to another- a talk of fashion led to the theme which finally led to the current topic.

"Did you read the papers? Those ungrateful ingrates are planning another assault on us!" Ms Petunia exclaimed horrified as she clapped a hand over her mouth, "As if they haven't quite destroyed our darling city!"

"Exactly! I knew we should've done them away from the start! Those...barbarians are ruining us!" Felicia agreed almost solemnly while she took out Today's papers on the coffee table with the front news facing them. Pictures of destroyed buildings and shambles were printed and a glaring phase screamed at Xyncisthe, 'the war is expected to last for awhile longer'. Could that be interpreted as enough time or was time too short?

"I sympathize with you, Viktore. Your return to...society is marred with such disaster," Lockhart whispered as the host merely waved his hand as if to dismiss such regrettable notion. Lockhart thought he saw a flicker of regret in those beautiful grey eyes that he tried to inform the younger man of the current affairs in Capitol, "Those...victors had threatened some of our own into forming a coup d'etat against President Snow. As if that wasn't distressing enough, they attempted a blitzkrieg recently but of course they failed! Good Heavens they failed, or I shudder to think where I shall be now. However, they seemed to have rescued some of the prisoners of war, most regrettably so!"

"_Some_?" Xyncisthe echoed as he raised a fine eyebrow at the man, "You mean to tell me that their...supposed blitzkrieg and rescue mission ended with less than satisfactory results?" When all his guests nodded, one meekly and the others sternly, Xyncisthe felt his lips curl into a dark smile. "Have you any information on who of their comrades are left behind?"

"I know only of Euphemia Trinket, the previous escort of District 12, the drunkard's supposed lover," Felicia answered with undisguised venom and pointedly ignore the burning gaze of her host, "I hope they keep her in detention; it _is_ only right. Who knows how long she has played traitor and helped her lover carry out this...uprising? If we shall have less peace of mind and greater inconvenience, then she shall never be reunited with her lover!"

"Felicia, such vehemence is very unappealing and unladylike," Ms Petunia soothed as she patted the younger woman's hand almost patronizingly before she smiled serenely at her host, "But honestly, I agree most strongly. Ms Trinket should live the remaining of her time in detention for her hand in disrupting the peace and harmony in Panem. I cannot fathom how she could willingly subject herself to be a...partner to those lowly animals! It is nothing short of criminal!" As Lockhart opened his mouth to utter a sound, she quickly continued despite her host's sudden quiet demeanour, "It cannot be that she loves him, is it? He is simply too beastly and she is...or rather used to be quite the beauty!"

"Believe me, Petunia, it _is _love," Lockhart said almost wistful as he stared adoringly at Xyncisthe who was blatantly ignoring all of them. "I _know_ of love, having felt it myself."

"Then all the more, that...harlot should never be released!" Felicia cried, determined that her opinion was the one true suggestion, "She shall never learn to love an-"

A quick clamped of his hand over her mouth, and Felix Lockhart can only pray that Viktore did not hear her. It would set his temper off and that would not be wise. An angry Viktore only spelt chaos and destruction...and cold war. When Viktore did not seem to react aggressively, Felix sighed in relief as he slowly removed his hand from Felicia's plump lips. The previous escort of District 12 was a taboo topic and one that should be thread very carefully if discussed. After all, they should remember that Euphemia Trinket has been or quite possibly, will continue to be Viktore's object of adoration and obsession.

Xyncisthe kept his back against his guests as he leaned gently against the mantelpiece while his mind began running a little on the overdrive. Effie was still held hostage and if luck was on his side, they would not have moved her. Then again, it did not quite matter where she was because he needed to only tweak his plans a little and he would have her. He sighed heavily as he wondered if he should be relieved that she was still in captive or shudder with worry that she had not escaped. No, as much as he hoped she would be tortured less, he was glad she was still in their hands because otherwise, he would have to hunt her down throughout Panem and that would be a whole lot worse and complicated. "A little longer sweetheart, I'm coming," he breathed quietly into his hand as he rubbed his face exasperatedly, "I won't let you down, _I promise_."

* * *

"Mr Viktore, would you like to advertise for us?" Xyncisthe merely glanced at the cameraman before he strode away proudly. He had no interest in modelling for small companies; everything concerning him and his successes had to be big and startling. Figg was a small company, perhaps an infant in the modelling-fashion industry and their designer was simply too...overstated. His sense of fashion was as laughable as it was upsetting. There was absolutely no way that Xyncisthe could ever see himself wearing those...repulsive clothes. He would not be caught dead wearing them! Good Panem, no! As he slowly walked out of the studio and into the light, someone approached him nearly stealthily and Xyncisthe had to fight the urge to do a roundhouse kick. He was an aristocrat, a poster boy and the capitol darling; it would be outrageous if he had done that.

"You didn't have to creep up from behind," Xyncisthe drawled as he tilted his head to the side and nodded subtly at the door that was in front of them, "You could've just walked in from there." When Felix looked apologetic, Xyncisthe sighed and waved the apology away before reaching out for the parcel. Upon seeing the cream envelope and white rose, Xyncisthe quickly nodded at Felix to be dismissed as he controlled his breathing and composure. A letter from the president himself? _Interesting_. Walking briskly, Xyncisthe could only hope that he was not actually running back to his apartment to read the oh so _secret _letter. Within minutes he was back in the comforts of his apartment and with a knife in one hand, he cut opened the cream envelope with a clean swipe. The rose he had carelessly discarded on the coffee table as he scanned through the letter.

The letter read:

_Viktore,_

_Time is of essence and a luxury you cannot afford to waste. _

_Please make haste and the necessary arrangements. _

_I will be awaiting your reply in the morrow; shall I not receive by dawn, you are on your own._

_Sincerely._

_P.s Burn the evidence._

Xyncisthe gritted his teeth as he crushed the letter and threw both the paper ball and the rose into the fire. How dare they ordered him! No one ordered him, and he was for the love of Panem no one's pet! He would not wag his tail as and when they commanded him; he was not that man anymore. He would sooner leave this world than be subjected to carry out anyone's whim! As the flames turned the thrash to ash, Xyncisthe paced his living room before he walked into the balcony and sighed heavily. He rested his hands on the railing before he looked skywards. Who knew he would be back so soon yet he was _summoned_ here. Xyncisthe did not know who he hated more- the one who summoned him or himself for being too willing to answer the call. _Time is of essence. _"For you sweetheart, no sacrifice and certainly no price is too great," he whispered in the wind as he retreated into his abode and waited for the moment, "because you are truly the best thing that entered my life.

* * *

I had endeavored to break it here so that you aren't left with a cliffhanger. I don't know about you but I find cliffhangers to be quite the frustrating one. If however, you would prefer a longer chapter but one that will most likely end with a cliffhanger, please feel encouraged to leave it in your review. Or should you find the story lacking or if the pace is quite fast, please include it in your review.

Thank you and good day ahead.


	3. Chapter 2

Author's note: I will be away for at least a week and there won't be an update on this Saturday. I usually do updates on weekends but as I will be going for camp for at least a week, I hoped to update this earlier than intended so that it doesn't feel like I abandoned this project.

P.s. This was updated 2 hours before I am to leave for camp. I apologize for not having done a very thorough proofread. Bewarned, there are some...graphic gore in this chapter.

* * *

"Mr Viktore, the president requests for an audience, if you will." Xyncisthe Viktore frowned as he followed quietly and warily. Why was he suspicious of their courteous president? There really was no need to except that the president never requests. President Snow always made it sound as if people had a choice in the matter, as if the word no holds power but Xyncisthe knew better how meaningless that word truly was.

As they thread through the mansion, Xyncisthe noted with despair how confusing the place truly was. The high ceilings, the white walls and the marble floor, the sparse furniture and paintings hanging on the walls, and the white doors and glass windows with intricate designs were leering down and mocking him. Indeed, they were going to make escape especially daunting since he could not really tell the difference between two rooms or two corridors. Everything looked identical and he highly doubt if a blueprint would even help; perhaps only a set of specific instructions and directions would be key. For example, a number of steps or the length of a direction before a turn is required.

He shook his head and nearly bumped into his tour guide who had abruptly stopped in front of a door. He had been engrossed in his musings that he failed to notice how the stairway that they had ascended was identical to the stairway a few rooms in front. Did they president, master of the fashionable Capitol, really desire identical and boring designs? How ironic.

"President Snow, Mr Viktore is here with me." Xyncisthe exhaled sharply as he fixed his composure and steadied his heartbeats. This was the make it or break it, and he sure as hell hoped he break it. For once in his life, he hoped to fail and he prayed to all divine beings to help temper his pride and arrogance. After all, not everyone planned to fail if there are even people who wanted to fail.

The peacekeeper pushed open the doors and _gently_ shoved him in before he closed the door with a bang. Was that bang intentional and perhaps to signify to others that he was safely delivered to their gracious president? Xyncisthe braced himself as he stepped further into the room and immediately frowned upon meeting the cool gaze of President Snow.

Coriolanus Snow noticed how Viktore looked as he did from two years ago when he finally broke onto the big stage, and outshining his mentor: Felix Lockhart. His platinum hair was styled faux Mohawk with none of the fringe covering or falling into his eyes and sideburns that were a little long and unkempt. His jaw as usual spotted the clean shave and from far, it was impossible to see the tiny hairs. Snow remembered how he once advised the boy then, to keep a beard. Viktore surely looked better with a beard if he would only experiment but Snow would not impose. Viktore's presence was necessary since it kept Effie Trinket in line (ten years of experience) and therefore, kept the rebellious victor checked and allowed Snow a little peace of mind. Two years into his disappearance, and a rebellion begun. If Snow knew, he would never have allowed Viktore to suddenly vanish without sending out peacekeepers to look out for him. "Viktore, I am most grateful for you to come here at a moment's notice."

"Your peacekeeper hasn't been as gracious as you, president," Xyncisthe sniffed as he rubbed his shoulder as if to remind the old man in front of him of the rough treatment. If he was honest, the shove did not hurt but the action itself set the alarms in his head ringing. Crossing his legs and allowing his back to rest lightly against the chair, he noticed the president fidgeting just slightly. Perhaps, it did make a composed man uncomfortable when he was used to seeing people squirm in his presence.

"Yes, I do apologize about that. We are at war, they cannot afford to slacken off," Snow smiled gently as he nodded lightly at the shoulder. Waving his hand lightly, a tray carrying two cups and a plate of pastries rolled in. The Avox set the cups and the plate on the table, bowed and quickly excused himself but not before he sent a measured look at Xyncisthe. "I understand you have returned to the Capitol only recently, how has it been?"

"I do understand that a...rebellion is ongoing, so I suppose it's less than abysmal given the circumstances." Taking a polite sip, Xyncisthe ensured that his eyes remained fixed on the president who nodded lightly. Slowly returning the cup onto the table top, he uncrossed his legs, leaned forward and rested hands on the table. "Well then, may I be of assistance? Surely, you didn't call for me to have tea time?" Xyncisthe could not help the twitch on his eye as he noticed how different their postures were – the president was laid back and relaxed while he was serious and business-like.

"Such hastiness."

"That's to be expected. We're at war, we cannot afford to slacken," he allowed his lips to curl into a sardonic grin as he repeated the words. With a huff and a frustrated hand running through his hair, Xyncisthe leaned back against his seat and whined just as childishly as any Capitol man would, "And _I'm_ a poster boy; my success _cannot_ be slowed down. That would be criminal!"

"Indeed," the president mused as he locked gazes with the handsome man. The younger man's eyes had hardly changed from their cool piercing gaze despite the comical facial and posture transformations. President Snow allowed himself a smile as he continued assessing the man; he would thread carefully because a man such as Viktore would pounce at the first sign of weakness. "I understand you are a close friend of Finnick Odair," President Snow continued carefully as he watched the lips of the poster boy curled just slightly, "At times such as these, friendships should no longer be our priority especially if they are standing on opposite ends of the battlefield."

"Very true. In wars, friendships are mere _trivialities_ of the past," Xyncisthe agreed as he twiddled his fingers lazily as if he had already lost concern for the conversation but the president knew better. Snow had dealt with plenty of men and women who are similar to Viktore, and he would be wise not to assume anything. "I assure you they have no bearing on me," Xyncisthe smiled darkly before his countenance immediately changed to a cheerful one, "Because really, what's done is done!"

"That's a nice thought. Well then, I shan't keep you here any longer than necessary," Snow exclaimed as he clapped and nodded at peacekeeper who was standing guard at the door. "Have a good day, Viktore."

Nodding, Xyncisthe tipped his hat ever slightly and excused himself politely. As he walked away, he made sure he paid special attention at the guard. Then as if jolted awake, he turned back just slightly, "Why are you concerned with my friendship with Odair, _president_?"

"Why, just to see where my people's loyalties lie."

Smirking lazily, Xyncisthe nodded and drawled, "I hope my answers have been satisfactory." As he followed the peacekeeper out of the mansion, his head began swimming and he was only partially attentive to the directions they were taking while exiting. It seemed legit for the president to be asking where his loyalties lie during wartimes and especially since some Capitol citizens have been captured for treason but to question him was really questionable. Had he not proved his loyalties since the 60th Hunger Games? After all, like many of the victors, he learnt it the hard way – opposing the Capitol is really one of the greatest and stupidest mistakes one can ever do in a lifetime.

"Mr Viktore, whatever you're planning, I suggest you cease it."

Xyncisthe blinked out of his thoughts and turned sharply as he raised an eyebrow at the peacekeeper. Did he really look like someone planning trouble or were they simply suspicious of everything but their dear president? Xyncisthe smiled kindly as he tilted his head to the side as if to ponder, "Whatever could you mean? Surely, you are not suggesting that I am planning treason, do you?" It suddenly felt amusing like they were sharing a dark joke together and Xyncisthe felt something swell in his chest but he was not bothered because the peacekeeper was suddenly the most interesting thing and person in the whole world.

The soldier glared into the chillingly clear grey eyes of the poster boy as if debating if he should pursue the matter. After all, if Viktore was found not guilty, then not only was his death imminent but rather his family's lives and reputation were also compromised. It was a gamble with extremely high stakes for a common Capitol soldier who had much to lose, but for a Capitol man who seemed to have nothing to lose and whose loyalties seem debatable, this was not even a gamble. "Like the 75th Hunger Games, even the strongest cannot overcome the Capitol and you would do well to remember, Mr Viktore."

Xyncisthe felt his smile transforming into a sneer on its own accord. Indeed, the gamble is on and he was a shrewd man who never gambled unless his victory was guaranteed. "I shall listen to advice," Xyncisthe whispered chillingly and he swallowed the bark of laughter that threatened to erupt when he saw the peacekeeper trembling, "And you shall never eavesdrop in any of my conversations again, with or without permission." With a swift strike that was nearly impossible to see, much less anticipate for, Xyncisthe Viktore ended the life of the peacekeeper. As if he had done nothing wrong, Xyncisthe wiped his blood stained knife casually on his handkerchief, dropped a white rose and walked away from the corpse without a backward glance. His million dollar smile pasted on his face and a cheerful skip in his steps, Xyncisthe continued his business as the thought of murder completely leaves his mind.

A person's mind and memory space are only so limited and it would be unwise to load them with more _trivialities of the past_. He had no time to think and _remember _such inconsequential facts and deeds but then again, Xyncisthe allowed the corners of his million dollar smile curl, this is the Capitol. The pointless are always the big news... Xyncisthe the familiar presence hugging him and he grinned at the cameras. Perhaps someone would find the corpse but knowing them, they would simply write the death off as part of the recent blitzkrieg. Then again, surely they are not too ignorant and ridiculous that they would ignore the fresh corpse on the patio of the president's mansion. Xyncisthe chuckled good naturedly which he waved off easily claiming he recalled a fantastic exclusive joke before he smiled once more for the cameras and leaving them.

* * *

"What did the president want?"

Xyncisthe made a face as he rested his head on his hand as he swirled his cup of iced tea. Really, that was a tough question; whatever shall he answer? If he told the truth, this irritating crowd of gossip mongers would surely scream and complain about how rude their _beloved _president was to quietly imply his potential betrayal against their _beloved _capitol. However, if he held the truth and simply said that the president wanted a chat over tea, they would still scream and complain about how rude their _beloved _president was. However, the latter option would only mean that they would shrill about how rudeness of the president for abusing his power and calling for private sessions with the unattainable bachelor. Xyncisthe sighed heavily as he looked skywards; either way he would caught in the storm of gossips again. That was how frivolous the Capitolians were; at times of war, they could still meet and discuss about poster boys and trivialities when their lives could very well be at stakes. "Nothing much, only that he wanted to talk over tea," Xyncisthe made a distressed sound as he buried his face into his hands, "I wish this..._nonsense_ would end soon enough. I'd like very much to see District 2."

He nearly laughed when the gossip mongers' attention were easily diverted away from the president and onto his desire to visit District 2. As he expected, they began discussing about that district and how they could plan the vacation and whatever sightseeing they could do. As far as he was concerned, their shrilling talk was of no importance and dreadfully boring until they brought up the name Ester Pitrre, the escort of District 2, and her treason against the Capitol. It seems that the escort was in cahoots with Lyme since God knows when and she was the one who alerted Lyme to immediately flee District 2 since the president had ordered a raid through the twelve districts and collect the victors and their families by brute force. Needless to say, everyone in the capitol who was somehow related to the games was detained and brought for an interview with the president. The ones who were...still walking on the roads of the Capitol were no doubt loyal to the Capitol and those not _here _were branded as traitors and trialled for treason. There were also those who never appeared after the interview and Effie Trinket was one of them. Xyncisthe closed his eyes as he leaned heavily on the back rest of his seat and released a quiet huff. _Effie..._

"Viktore, are you _still _missing that traitor?" Felicia asked incredulous. For once in her life since the war started, she actually felt offended and insulted. Sat here in front of her was her dream man, the most handsome bachelor and he was sighing for her rival? How much more hurtful and offensive could this be? Sure, she had never out-rightly declared her affections for him since that was rude and unfounded for the refined ladies but she did not deserve this. She could understand his missing for that traitor since he had never hid his affections for that...dreadful tramp and even a blind man would know of his adorations but to be still missing her..? The nerve! Felicia gritted her teeth as she seethed in jealousy; if only she had personally known Viktore from the Games then perhaps it would be her he would adore.

Xyncisthe opened an eye as he regarded the green-wig woman with a raised eyebrow. It was ugly how the woman was seething but it was no concern of his why she was fuming. He slowly closed it again while he mused; he had not spoken her name loudly, yes? Then again, he had always loved saying her name and all the other names he called her: sweetheart, princess, honey and dear. Sure, she had made it clear that she hated the monikers he gave her, and going as far as saying that he did not adore her but rather was merely copying the mentor of district 12, her colleague. He made a disgusted sound from his throat as he pushed away the thought.

"Earth to Viktore," Felix whispered as touched the shoulder of his ex-lover tentatively and nearly coiled backwards when Xyncisthe glared menacingly. Felix immediately pulled his hand back and fixed his face immediately. He was was terrified and he had learnt how horrifying his junior's rage could be; after all, he had been a victim of one or two of the temper tantrum. There was once the younger man had nearly broke his arms and jaw when he had accidentally blurted that he thought Euphemia Trinket was repulsing. Ever since then, he had learnt to step carefully around his junior for fear of being at the receiving end of such malicious violence. In all honesty, he had never thought his darling junior was capable of such ruthlessness that was as barbaric as those ingrates because and only because Felix Lockhart is a man who only loves meek and tameable lovers. He had always been the master as far as kinky sex went but when it came to this man... His days as the master was over when the man broke onto the big stage, and since then he had been the submissive one. "Sorry..." he murmured as he glanced at his aggressive ex-lover shyly, "But you were zoning out."

"I do whatever whenever I want," Xyncisthe snarled as he glanced at all the people sharing a table with him before he fixed a cool but deadly stare at Felicia, "And I miss whoever however long I want." He looked around the table again, raised his head a little and looked down on them as condescendingly as an aristocrat Capitolian would a district person, "Because I am _Viktore_, the Capitol's darling." With that, he elegantly excused himself and strode away. Whoever thought he could be stopped and tamed was sorely wrong. No one, not even President Snow had absolute power over him. No one ever will. Running a hand through his hair, he flicked his bangs out of his eyes as he watched the mansion with narrowed eyes from afar. He was sure she was somewhere in that labyrinth and he would find her...or he would lure her out. He would somehow unite back with her and she would know just how sorry he was that he failed to protect her, and he hoped as hard as he could that she would not hate him when they meet again.

But more importantly, tonight is a special night for someone and Xyncisthe Viktore, the ever courteous man the Capitol would like to believe, would be punctual. Tonight just like the very few other nights, he would play his part and dress to kill. After all, _time is of essence; a luxury he cannot afford to waste_.

* * *

"Oh, how _simply _delightful!" Felix Lockhart exclaimed as he clapped his hands and swaggered across the sea of bodies towards the entrance of his house. He was dressed from top to bottom in sparkly blue with sapphire shards casting and reflecting the light. He had even dyed his hair sky blue and wore matching contact lens. If anything, Xyncisthe thought he was a mascot for everything blue and he nearly felt sorry for the man. His guests were amused and some pulled a hand over their lips as if to hide their laughter and Xyncisthe was honestly confused regarding the reason for their laughter. Surely, they would not be too rude to laugh at a Capitol darling. That would be unthinkable. Then again, how often had he heard the vicious gossips those...women used to gossip about Effie who held the titles: Sex Symbol and Escort of District 12? Or perhaps he was just being paranoid; those ladies might very well be giggling like little school girls when their crush walks passed.

"Oh Viktore, how _far_ you must have travelled," Lockhart murmured as he gently tugged onto Xyncisthe's hand to lead the bachelor onto the center of the circle. In truth, it had hardly been far. Sure, Lockhart lived quite a few streets away but they were still in the center of the Capitol and they could see the Victor's Tower easily from each other's abode. So, really it certainly was not far. Xyncisthe shook his head and decided he would just allow that to slide and humour the host with a slight smile and a tiny shake of his head. While he may not exactly like Lockhart, Xyncisthe was a man extremely careful and concern with the public image and he would certainly not tarnish his own...or others if he could help. "Well have a drink to quench your thirst, _darling_." Lockhart thrust a flute of champagne gently into Viktore's hand while he sashayed away to entertain his other guests. After all, it would only be rude to invite everyone and spend a whole night with a specific guest; although Viktore and he _are _two of the few Capitol darlings.

Xyncisthe grimaced when Lockhart bid him farewell a little too affectionately. Sure, they used to have history and they were still sort of in a relationship- not a sexual one please, but a strange sort of friendship. Perhaps, it would be adequate to say that they were friends with benefits, and bear in mind that _benefits _is a term used very loosely. He unconsciously swirled his wineglass and ignored how the liquid nearly sloshed clumsily onto his jacket. His mind was focused on executing the plan and any minute too late or early and a decade worth of planning would be _game over_.

As the minutes ticked by, they melted into hours and the dazzling, sparkling raucous crowd gradually thinned out. Quietly, stealthily, Xyncisthe rose to his feet and prowled against the walls of the room before he finally stopped just a few feet behind the host. With a deep bow and a whisper, Felix Lockhart found himself gently dragged onto the center of the dance floor and in the arms of the most desirable man. It would be an understatement of the year if one were to claim that Lockhart was only mesmerized; he was infatuated and obsessed, impressed and bewitched. To be held so carefully and yet so carelessly by his ex-lover, Lockhart was quickly finding himself on cloud nine. With a sneaky movement of his fingers, Lockhart made the orchestra improvise the current song so that it stretched longer and made the dance even more exquisite and lasting than possible. When he was twirled, Lockhart shyly glanced at his partner who had been leading the entire dance and noticed how impossibly aloof he was. Then again, Viktore always looked brooding or aloof and cold; it was his trademark face.

With the final hum of the violin, Xyncisthe bowed again and thanked his host for the dance before he made his way to the sides with deliberate steps. Everything had fallen nicely and now the spider need only move and the prey is gone.

* * *

"Viktore..."

Xyncisthe smiled maliciously when the room echoed the throaty moans. He continued to hum as he stood at the foot of the bed, stark naked and watching his lover writhe helplessly in bed. The sheets had tangled around the writhing body, creating quite a complicated cocoon. The pillows were thrown off the bed and laid scattered among the clothes. Xyncisthe reached out to gingerly touch the forehead of the helpless person, and nearly laughed darkly when the slight touch seemed to burn the man. "Poor, _poor _Felix," Xyncisthe crooned as he wiped the sweat off the glistening forehead of the blue haired man, "Are you in pain?"

"Viktore, _please_." Felix Lockhart the pompous has-been poster boy who was used to being the dominating lover in most bedrooms was now whimpering. He was aware that tonight, his bedroom session with Viktore had crossed a line that should never be crossed and he wondered if he had somehow angered his young lover. Tonight, strangely, he was more aroused than usual and it was a very scary thought. Sure, he usually trembled with anticipation whenever Viktore touched him but somehow tonight the touches were few, cruel and burning. He felt burnt every time Viktore's fingertips would simply graze his skin; it was as if every pore and nerve as well as his senses had been heightened to ridiculous heights. "Viktore, _touch _me..." He was not above begging truly. As much as Viktore's touch burnt him, he still craved for them- every one of them.

"Let's play a game," Xyncisthe finally relented as he dropped into the chair by the vanity and smiled his Cheshire grin. Felix felt his heart rate increase at the thought of playing games. Viktore's games were as cruel as they were kinky but they were always fair...although he seemed to always be the loser. Felix was listening with half an ear as he could only think of feeling the hands of that...scoundrel. He could not even pay attention to the usually soothing and deep voice of his current guest but he did catch the phase, 'This or that'.

"Well then, right or left?" Xyncisthe asked as he dug in the pockets of his jacket for his knife and spun it around his finger. When Felix quickly answered right, Xyncisthe stalked gracefully and slashed very gently on Felix's right arm. The game went on for a few rounds of which Felix's screams kept increasing in volume, the wounds were getting longer and deeper and Xyncisthe's smile was stretching wider, gentler and more vicious. At some point, it was anyone's guess if Viktore's face would remain in that cruel smile or be split in half. By the 36th round, Felix's once flawless body was marred with ugly scars that were of various lengths and depths and the once white sweat drenched cocoon was now a crimson blood stained cocoon. The atmosphere that was once heavy with lust and primal sexual hunger had been easily replaced by fear and dark glory as Xyncisthe laughed a rich dark laughter as he watched the blue haired man bleed to his eventual death.

"Fear makes everything a little more...memorable, don't you think?" Xyncisthe asked as he came closer and shared a chaste kiss that was no longer reciprocated by the man beneath him, "Fear puts things into a new perspective, no? It heightens the senses and makes things more..." Xyncisthe pouted as he tried to think of a word that could adequately put his point across but when the word eluded him, he simply carried on as if that thought was of no importance. "I could give you a release, if you want," he grinned as he wiped the blood of Felix Lockhart off the blade with a napkin as if everything was a usual daily occurrence, "Just scream my name and I will give it to you. Don't you just _love _the releases I give you?"

Not able to withstand the pain of the wounds, Felix Lockhart could only submit. He screamed and screamed through the night as Xyncisthe Viktore redressed deliberately. If a common person was to pass by, it was hard to confidently say that the screams were from pain instead of pleasure. Then again, many of Felix's neighbours knew how rough and kinky the bedroom could be when you locked a Viktore and a Felix Lockhart. After a few years, they had grown accustomed to the screams of Felix Lockhart that they had simply given up inquiring about the healthy or unhealthy sexual business he had with Viktore. After all, what he did in his bedroom with who was not and would never be their concern.

Turning around, Xyncisthe smiled tightly before he threw his knife with a precision that would have made some of the victors blush. The knife sailed through the air and landed with a slick quiet pierce into the middle of Felix Lockhart's forehead. "Thank you for everything." Calmly, Xyncisthe switched off bedside lights, left the room and quietly closed the door while hanging a 'Do not disturb' sign. He gave the Avoxes three days at maximum before they found out about the death of their master. Walking out the house as if it was common for him, he burnt his gloves and threw them carelessly into a bin. _One more down, a few more to go._

* * *

Somewhere on the other side of Panem, a strangled cry echoed followed by the a loud stampede. Finnick, Beetee, Lyme, President Coin and some of the soldiers arrived at the scene but none of them had truly anticipated such a gruesome scene. The nurse who was the culprit behind the scream was huddled in a corner, crying and shivering from fright. While she may have been used to corpses considering that she is an active member of the medical team and a nurse who used to work in a mortuary, the sight of the room was quite spine chilling cold. The brutality was immense and loud long shrieks and cries of agony echoed in the eerily empty blood room.

With a flick of his wrist, Finnick ordered the soldiers to escort the shaken nurse away while he stepped carefully around the room. The floor and the walls were splattered with blood, the windows and the mirror was smashed with glass splinters littering the floor. The bed sheets were shredded, the pillows were torn apart with their feathers flying everywhere. With all the mayhem swirling like a hurricane, the center of the room was the icing on the cake. A decapitated body, which was missing of all its limps, was hung from the ceiling fan by the neck. Beetee took one look at the body and he had to control himself from fainting. For a victor who had electrocuted all his opponents, this was a side even he could not stomach. President Coin tried to control her facial expressions but to no avail. She stumbled backwards and fled the room while shutting her eyes tight; the sight of the room, she was certain, would never allow her to sleep for a few nights at least. Lyme and Finnick stared coolly at the body while their fought valiantly to remain unaffected although one glance at the other and they knew they were affected too maybe not as strongly.

"Well, shall we at least identify the victim?" Finnick asked as he tried to keep his voice light and steady although it came out uncertain and a little throaty. He sidestepped the limbs that were discarded carelessly on the floor. He nudged an arm gently with the toe of his shoe and grimaced when the lifeless hand shook before the elbow joint crumbled. Somehow, it seemed intentional that whoever went rogue had planned for that to happen- torture the hand to its breaking point and leave it for someone else to completely destroy it with minimal effort. Finnick _almost_ felt angry at such cruelty until he remembered that years of pent up rage and hate were enough to drive anyone into insanity, especially if they had been struggling to _forget_ those feelings and the memories that came along.

"Impossible," Lyme replied solemnly as she shook her head. Upon Finnick's questioning look, she nodded at the study table and... Finnick quickly congratulated himself for not fainting at the sight of the supposed-to-be human head. If the body which bore numerous long slashes of various depth was considered terrifying, the head was an even more gruesome sight. The eyes were gorged out, the jaws were viciously pulled apart and half the head was without skin. Finnick noted how the exposed half of the skull had a hole the size of a man's fist and he could only hope that the victim had died before all the brutality and butchering had descended on the victim. Beside the disfigured head was a promise written in a cursive and steady handwriting and in blood: _I will not be stopped._

"Someone got a little too angry," Finnick joked weakly as the victors walked out of the horrifying room and locked the door. Somehow even after locking it, they could still hear the faint screams of agony and they wondered how no one had heard them earlier. If he was truly honest, Finnick would have admitted that he felt nauseated but a strange bubble of exhilaration swelled gently in his chest. It was akin to a decade ago when he was still hunting with a trident. While it was a scary notion and an alarming wake up call, at the very least, it made him feel a little bit more _alive _and _predatory_.

"_He _wasn't angry at all," Lyme mused as they paused before a flight of staircase that would lead them back to the floor that host the private chambers, "_He _was just waking up."

"Must've been a rude waking," Beetee agreed, "And that was just the appetizer." The victors nodded before they immediately flinched. If that mutilation and dismemberment were just stretching of his muscles, they shuddered to think of what the main course would actually be. Then again, being victors, they knew just how creative a fellow victor could be when fueled with rage. After all, they had their fair share of cruelty and to chastised another for being diabolical was certainly hypocritical; and a Capitol citizen would happily call them, 'pot calling the kettle black'.

* * *

Alone in her private chamber, President Coin watched the door warily and wearily. Visions of the sickening room kept surfacing to the forefront of her mind and she could only wonder how long the corpse had been left to decompose. She did not dare to close her eyes and she could only hope that whoever the sadist was, he had enough humanity in him to at least commit the monstrous, vile cruelty on the corpse instead of the victim. It would be too _inhumane _to bring upon such beastly torment on a living soul. Haymitch Abernathy is a drunken and clumsy fool but the victor of the Second Quarter Quell is not a person but a monster; and someone was unfortunate enough to have a taste of the victor's ferociousness. Perhaps, people will learn to differentiate the two entities who lived within one body because to claim they are both the same was either stupidity or simply courting a vicious death. President Coin supposed she could count herself lucky since she did brush tempers although minimally with the victor and lived to tell the tale but how long was his mercy going to last?

* * *

"So, what happened?" Johanna asked as she sat in her bed. Her cheeks were hollowed and her eyes burnt with greater defiance than before. Her hair a tangled mess that looked suspiciously like a bird's nest but her body was the saddest yet. The violent, defiant and often-times vulgar victor now spotted a body that was a mere shadow of itself, in beauty and power. Once she could be considered a pretty thing and had a body not to be trifled with but now, after her 'honeymoon' (as she calls it) in the detention center, it looked more like a ragged stuffed toy with way too many stitches.

Finnick shuffled and stared curiously at his feet as if somehow the plain concrete floor had suddenly turned to be quite the interesting thing. With all those cracks and lines... He heaved a sigh and slumped into the visitors chair before sneaking a glance at his friend. Her hardened glare, the jut of her defiant chin and Finnick knew there was no end to this until he answered. She was determined that way. "Well, something snapped and a hurricane was released," he tried casual before he added jokingly, "at least it was controlled; one killed!"

Johanna allowed her eyes to slide as she watched the handsome victor of District 4. A few quiet moments rolled by, and she concluded that while he was being awfully friendly and cheerful about the report, he was deadly serious and somehow, that awakened a primal hunger in her. "Well shit hits the fan," she also tried for casual and nearly winced when her throat scratched roughly, "Who was the fucking shit that released it?"

Finnick's lips curled into a sardonic smile as he chuckled at his friend's vulgarity and passed her a jug of water. Johanna Mason never does it slow and simple; she hit it fast with a bang. While he might have found such trait to be quite unattractive in women, but in Johanna, he found it quite endearing and funny. It made her who she was and if she felt comfortable being that way, he would not try to change her. Panem knows how many times the Capitol and Snow had tried to change and mend them. "Don't know. Maybe it was the last straw... you know, enough is enough. Probably got too much and finally got a release since the reins are off," he shrugged as he leaned against the chair and watched Johanna gulped the water sickeningly fast. "Besides, gotta be hurting to be keeping it in for so long."

"No shit, probably gone off the edge if it were me," Johanna agreed as she passed the empty jug to her friend while she wiped her lips and chin dry, "Well, didn't get reined because Snow wanted... Got reined because was willing to be reined." Finnick met her gaze as her usual smirk turned into a rare sad smile, "What sort of person allows himself to be shackled and collared?" When her question bounced against the walls and no reply returned, she yawned and the smile slipped away as if it were never there. "Get lost Finnick; I wanna sleep."

Finnick chuckled softly and smiled tenderly before he tucked her in much to her displeasure. Her eyes fluttered close and soon enough she was in deep slumber. However, before he left her room, he stilled and his heart skipped a few beats and suddenly it became hard to breathe. "Keep her alive. She subdues _Fenrir_ best...better than all the liquor and wine combined."

"But Jo, the one with that power is not here," Finnick whispered as he opened the door soundlessly and closed it behind him, "They didn't return with her." He could only hope that Haymitch found her before _Fenrir_ did because if the latter found her instead... Finnick winced as he walked towards Annie's room. It would be the games all over again just that there would be nothing else but the cornucopia. Finnick paused as he stood outside Annie's room, his hand sweaty as it curled around the handle. If push does come to shove and all of them are caught in the squall... "If _Fenrir_ does come, only then I shall worry," Finnick breathed in deeply as he tried to calm his mind; it would not do to come to Annie troubled when she needed him more.

* * *

Plutarch sat in his room and buried his face in his hands. Was it the right thing to do? Of course second guessing his actions now was useless but if he did find comfort in it, why not? He had spent hours thinking and had reached no definite answer. At the time it happened, Plutarch was not quite sure who he was dealing with and the person had certainly not asked, he had demanded. Plutarch was reluctant but when the calm eyes turned stormy and fierce, fear commanded all his senses and he stole a map of Panem. As soon as he handed the map, the man immediately whisked away into the evening leaving Plutarch standing alone at one of exits of the revolutionists' stronghold.

Plutarch stood up and walked out of his room in hopes of finding a few answers of his own. Whoever he helped had an similar physical resemblances to his friend but that was as far as similarities went. Unlike his friend, this stranger was radiating a presence so dangerous and intimidating, not that Haymitch was gentle and soft; but Haymitch did not seem threatening. Haymitch did not _feel _threatening. Where Haymitch was sloppy and his feet were usually dragging lazily across the floor, this man walked with the grace and power of a feline.

Spotting Beetee, he quickly caught up with the victor with quite a few huffs and pants. "Beetee, may I have a bit of your time?" When the victor inclined his head, Plutarch wasted no time and asked his question, "By any chance, do you know if Haymitch has a... long lost twin?"

Beetee looked thoughtful as if he was debating if he should tell the truth. "As far as I know, he's the last of his line; they killed his family," Beetee nodded sagely as he stared in the worried eyes of the Capitol man. To further explain his point since Plutarch did not seem to quite grasp the concept yet, he continued with a softer and gentler tone that could very well be chillingly dangerous, "Who you saw was probably what Haymitch could and would be if he allowed the rage to control him. After all, that man was the second victor of the Quarter Quell and the victor of a battle of forty-eight youths." As Beetee began to walk away, he looked over his shoulder and added an afterthought, "Do not assume they are both one and the same; Haymitch the Drunk does not kill but Haymitch the Quarter Quell Victor..."

Needless to say, Plutarch was still very much confused. As far as he was concerned, there was only one Haymitch Abernathy so why the need to differentiate the man's titles? "What do you mean?"

"That victor is a loose cannon," Beetee warned as his eyes glared, "You think Haymitch is always drunk except for the few sparks of intelligence, don't you? Well guess what, he's not as drunk as your people think and _nobody_, not even Haymitch himself I dare believe, knows exactly what _he_ is thinking or planning. That's the reason that perhaps best explains the difference between a Quarter Quell victor and a usual one." With a grunt, he continued to walk away and this time it seemed as if he was very eager to leave.

Plutarch watched the retreating figure of the victor and he leaned heavily against the wall before rubbing his face roughly. If he thought he could find answers in Beetee, he was sorely mistaken. If anything, the man gave a cryptic message that was difficult for his mind to wrap around. How can there be so many entities in one man? Multi-personality disorder or something like that but that...version of Haymitch seemed too real, too _alive_ to be simply another personality or identity. He felt different from Haymitch yet comforting similar. It was as if that man was Haymitch yet was not. It seemed as if there _are _two souls tied to that body.

Was his theory even plausible? Was he making sense? Probably not. Plutarch groaned as he felt his mind swirled even more than before with thoughts that perhaps all the victors were like Haymitch with two identities sharing a body- there is their supposedly friendly humane identity and the darker identity. Then again, if he thought of Johanna Mason, that girl was vulgar as a person and as a victor. However, Mason is a victor of the usual games. Could it be that only Quarter Quell victors had that...double identity disorder?

Plutarch wobbled back to his room where he lied in bed. Nothing but a night's rest will help untangle the mess in his head. Then again, if the victors were such...complicated people, what sort of people were the escorts? And who exactly is Effie Trinket for she probably had to deal with one of the darker if not the darkest victor-turned-mentor? Plutarch groaned as he turned onto his side and shut his eyes tightly. There were too many questions, too many concerns and too little answers. Suddenly, he jerked and sat upright. Could it be that half of Haymitch, that Quarter Quell victor, is perhaps the _real_ enemy while the other half, the drunkard, is an ally? Does it make sense to reject and denounce half a person while accepting the other half? With all the speculations and wonder surrounding Haymitch Abernathy, Plutarch could only ask aloud, "So it begets the question, _where _and _who _is the _real _Haymitch Abernathy?"

* * *

The following installment would be a little much later than this one as I am without internet and gadget to continue this project while I am in camp. I hope for a good day ahead and best of health for you.

Now that my temporary farewell is done, I hope this chapter does not confuse you since I haven't had the chance to do a thorough proofread on it. I apologize for that. If the pace in this chapter is too fast, do tell me in your review. If the story is lacking in any element, please do alert me in your reviews.


	4. Chapter 3

Proxy Author: On behalf of Xyncisthe, I am uploading the next installment. I understand that he said that there would be no updates this Saturday/ weekend but he left me with instructions to update it. Oh well... He is still in camp if any of you are wondering, poor sod, and this was written on scraps of papers while he was on the journey to the camp site. I am quite glad you cannot upload photos on this site or you will shudder at the atrocious handwriting and horrifying plans he had drawn. It's a mess, a horrid mess I tell you! Typing out the chapter word for word, letter for letter is hellish! (Honestly, I cannot believe I am related to him!) I sure hope he comes back soon lest I will be the one captaining this...project of his, and trying to decipher his...illegible scrawls. I suppose I am babbling more than he usually does, so anyway, onwards to the story!

P.s. I am not his beta-reader or proofreader. All mistakes, except for spelling, are Xyncisthe's fault! Blame him in your review!

* * *

Xyncisthe Viktore sat in his living room in silence. His hair a tangled mess as if he had been running his hand through the mob of platinum numerous times. The curtains were pulled and only tiny rays of afternoon sunlight peeked through the slits between the curtains. An empty glass sat among a scattered crowd of empty wine bottles; some were still half filled while others were completely empty. There were also some broken bottles and shards that littered the floor. Cigarette buds were scattered about and the ash tray was overturned with the ash spilling over the wet and sticky coffee table. A crumpled, rolled up and torn newspaper sat on the edge of the table, its corners soiled and wet.

He glanced at the dining table and pursed his lips. Not too long ago they were all sitting there, talking and discussing about the ongoing war, the fashion trends and everything else in between. How strange it was that he could _hear_ them, _feel_ them. It was as if their ghosts still lingered within the four walls of his apartment.

He wondered if Felix Lockhart would still enjoy sitting by his side if the poor man knew he would die a vicious death? Then again, it was not _that _vicious by Xyncisthe's standard; he thought he gave Felix a rather _merciful _and _quick _death. After all, for all the roguish and despicable acts he had committed, Xyncisthe knew himself to be quite the grateful and fair person, and Felix Lockhart was awarded a beautiful death for the things he had done for Xyncisthe. Xyncisthe stared at his hands and allowed a soft rueful smile; these are the hands capable of so much pain and devastation, and his kind smile stretched into a dark smirk. "Oh Felix, I could've given you a worse death but I was feeling _happy _and merciful that night," he whispered to no one in particular, "There was whelp who was _still _screaming and begging, and crying and _hoping for mercy_, when I was twisting and tearing his limbs away. I wonder if they finally heard his screams; I'm quite certain the pleading will echo...but I could be wrong."

Xyncisthe chuckled lightly as he flicked another burning cigarette bud away and looked at the remaining two chairs and sighed. Felicia Oxlade and Petunia Mathias. Too bad he could not see them away as he did for Felix; it was actually a little hurting. He had wanted to be part of their passing because they deserved a grand passing just like Felix; perhaps not as beautiful, but Xyncisthe supposed their deaths by his hand would be sweet at the very least. And just like the others, both of them would scream his name; what a glorious song that would be. But oh well, someone beat him to Petunia Mathias and...

Xyncisthe threw his head back with a heavy sigh and closed his eyes for the first time since he learnt of her death. It was just a few hours ago when the press had asked him regarding her death and he _honestly _had no idea how it came to be. Petunia was found dead in her own home with her face scalded and disfigured. A gunshot in her chest and a few scratch marks on her arms and back. The peacekeepers had stated that Petunia had struggled in a fight before she was shot in her chest and left to die. They found traces and had convicted Felicia of Petunia's murder and that was when Xyncisthe felt the floor under him slide. Petunia's death and Felicia's crime set everything into motion, disrupting his plans and...

A series of knocks jolted Xyncisthe who opened his eyes lazily. It was time for the poster boy to act. He slurred for them to come in. The door swung open and a team of three peacekeepers entered his abode. One shook his head in disgust at the coffee table and dreadful and gloomy ambience while another one looked pitifully at the sloppy poster boy. "Mr Viktore, please accept our condolences," one of them stepped forward and Xyncisthe hazily noted him as the leader, "We sympathize with you and we understand your need to be in mourning, but the president wishes to see you."

Xyncisthe made a clumsy attempt at pouring liquor into his glass but succeeding only in pouring majority of it on the table. "Go away... I wish to grieve alone. I haven't had my month of mourning yet." As he soon as he put the glass onto his lips, the leader grabbed onto his wrist to prevent him.

"Mr Viktore, I do not wish to use violence on you but I will if you should refuse to come with us," the leader warned as the other two began to withdraw their weapons and Xyncisthe felt himself tensing up, "Please do not make this any harder than it already is."

Xyncisthe forced his body to sway a little as his alert mind quickly worked out the situation. Three peacekeepers are easy to deal with especially since he had a little more than half a dozen of bottles as his weapon. However, he still had to maintained the mourning man image and knowing the president, Snow would send even more peacekeepers to bring him in. Eventually, Xyncisthe knew he would have to meet the president; better now than later and with a lot less troubles. He forced his head to nod numbly and mutely as he fixed the most appropriate image given his supposed circumstances.

As they made their way through the winding maze of the mansion, Xyncisthe nearly groaned at his shackled hands. What reason was there for them to subdue him? Could it be that they already learnt of Felix Lockhart? If so, then there was only one way to proceed and the tiny dark sly smirk slid back onto his face.

* * *

"Mr President, Mr Viktore is here with us." A soft invitation and the leader of the trio pushed the doors opened. They dragged Xyncisthe across the carpeted floor, pushed him a little too roughly into the seat and removed the shackles before they marched out of the room and closed the door.

"Please accept my deepest condolences for the loss of your dear friends," Snow began quietly as he noted the wrinkled clothes and unkempt hair. When his guest merely nodded, Snow stared at the eyes that were partially hidden beneath the messy fringe. They were bloodshot but otherwise seemed..._bored_. They did not look miserable or angry, troubled or at ease. They looked as normal as anyone who was not feeling any particular emotion. "I'm sure they would not want you to grieve forever," Snow continued, "They were quite honorable; dying for the Capitol. Would you be like them; would you die for the Capitol too?"

Xyncisthe snapped up so quickly his neck whined in protest but he was far too taken aback to really care about the jolt of sharp pain. His eyes widened and his mouth slackened a little. To say he was shocked was an understatement. He was far more than shocked or mind blown; he was too startled to react. Did the president really ask him that? What exactly should he answer? Xyncisthe noticed how bored the president was and he realized that no matter what he answered, it was the wrong answer; so why did it matter? Of course it would still matter because an answer always contained a certain degree of information and every shred of information was useful. The false, the truth, the half truth- because it meant there was something to investigate, something to extract. If this mental analysis was right, then it only meant that the president had already decided that he was far too gone to be a loyal subordinate. It implied that he had already started on his journey back to his maker whether against his will or otherwise was another matter altogether. Xyncisthe allowed himself a lazy smile; if the president had already decided, then he had also decided.

"Why ask when you already knew the answer? Nevertheless, allow me to indulge you; I die for my plans just as I kill for my plans. I am a mercenary really," Xyncisthe mused as he folded his arms across his chest and casually leaned back. All pretense of loyalty and subordination were off, as did the gloves. "What I think is more..._interesting_ is, since when did you know the answer?"

Snow noted how the demeanor of the aristocrat had changed considerably. Oh no, not in the sense that the calmness and composure had evaporated, nor were manners and civility but rather, the friendly and warm disposition had disappeared. If there was anything Snow was more than aware of, it was that his guest was now every inch an aristocrat- in body, mind and possibly soul. Before today, Viktore was only a man with the air and grace of an aristocrat but now, seated in front of him was an aristocrat in flesh. How swift the transformation; it could only mean one thing- the question was the trigger to releasing the restraint. In other words, Viktore had already expected and was waiting for it but since when? "You're a smart man, Viktore," Snow praised quietly as he began mulling over his own question, "I'm quite certain you'd have already guessed."

"Aye, that I already do," Xyncisthe nodded as his hand curled around his cane and he began tapping it gently against his knee, "But I would rather hear it from you." He was certain he knew the answer but he was far from absolutely certain. After all, he was dealing with the mastermind of the Hunger Games who was the culprit behind the segregation between the people and certainly the creator of the victors. Xyncisthe allowed himself a sly smirk as he played with the last thought. Indeed Coriolanus Snow created the victors; if it were not for his malicious games and its deadly rules, no one would be crowned victor and therefore, there would be no rebellion. How sad it was to know that the weapons you created to glorify and testify your might would be the very same weapons used to bring you down? Then again, knowing and acknowledging were two very different things and Snow might do the former and deny the latter... not that it was any of Xyncisthe's concerns.

"Why would you turn yourself against those who adore you?" Snow tilted his head as he watched his guest curiously. Viktore was or rather still is a peculiar but interesting human. His loyalty, like every other mercenary, was a tricky and it would be preposterous if he actually decried and denounced Viktore's loyalty. The Capitol would be in greater uproar than it already was because and only because they adored Viktore too much. Then again, everything surrounding Viktore was bizarre to say the least, and his existence especially is the cherry on top. Viktore is an aristocrat who is the last remaining member of the line of Viktore, or the birth and death certs seemed to suggest, and had eluded the Capitol for thirty or so years before Viktore suddenly appeared in the modelling industry. It was also proven that Viktore had graduated from Klins College, a boarding school only for the aristocrat males, much like Eton College. This only meant that Viktore had indeed went through the intelligence test and had been _there _sitting under his nose for a long, long time. Snow could not and would not believe that such a highly intelligent noble could have eluded him for thirty years, stayed out of his radar completely before surfacing among the models at aged thirty or so and then pulled a disappearing act before reappearing again with a bang. It was inconceivable! There was no way anyone could outsmart him for so long, not even the victor of the Second Quarter Quell had; it was simply impossible. How could someone be cunning enough to fool the king of Panem?

"Why shouldn't I? They have _never_ adored me," Xyncisthe scoffed, "It is my_ body _that they crave for." He put a hand above his heart and sighed dramatically but despite his theatrics, Snow was sure Viktore could hardly care. Those stormy grey eyes told him more than the face and lips...and body would ever. Their eyes met for a moment and Xyncisthe drawled, "Unlike me, they adore you oh so very, _very _much. After all, you are their _darling _president." Somehow those last few words did not have the usual affectionate tone or cheekiness but rather they were laced with venom and sarcasm.

"From the first moment we discussed about friendships, trivialities and the past, I was certain your loyalty was questionable. When Felix Lockhart did not return to me with information, and you declared live that you did not know Felicia Oxlade and therefore could not have possibly ordered her to kill Petunia Mathias, I was more than certain that your loyalty was not to the Capitol but rather to what the Capitol held. Did you honestly think no one would second guess your declaration?" Snow felt a bubble of triumph swelled in his chest as he watched a frown deepening on Viktore's face, "Did you actually think that the Capitol would turn a blind eye to a murder committed by one of their poster boys? Did you really think _you _could outsmart me and the Capitol?"

"On the contrary, I was _expecting_ you to call upon it," Xyncisthe nodded slightly as if he was agreeing and ticking off from a mental checklist, "And perhaps to your questions: no, no and certainly no. All I ever did was watch my plans and humorous entertainment unfold like...a beautiful white rose. Lockhart had already served his purpose and his usefulness had completely evaporated; keeping him alive by my side was beginning to be a hassle. Unlike you, I really don't have the luxury of keeping away my toys...so, I had to throw them away." Xyncisthe ticked away a stray crocodile tear away as he smiled sheepishly but his eyes remained cold and clear. "_I_ am so, _so_ sorry that their...corpses looked grotesque but I _really_ tried to be careful and artistic. Anyway, I knew Felicia Oxlade desired me but for all her bravado and self declared bravery, she could not follow her possessiveness; _I _had to give her the push. It was _fun _really; watching people fight for you. And then, the finale came and passed too quickly...and I told her, '_Nothing_ is above the law, and _you_ are convicted of murder.' I suppose she went delirious and begged you for help which really...led me back here, is it not?" Xyncisthe let out a chilling dark laughter that would have sent a common man running for the hills. It was a sound so full of malicious murderous intent that was strangely glorifying as it was terrifying.

Snow waited patiently for the ruthless man to cease his laughter. In fact, Snow would like to have pretended he did not find amusement in the man's devious plans to be rid of his company but the fact remained that Snow was actually impressed with the knowledge that his guest had a vicious mind that could truly rival his own. They could very well be kindred spirits. As the laughter slowly died down, Snow quietly observed the tip of a scar that was just peeking from beneath the complicated white cravat. No doubt that scar should be running longer and deeper and Snow wondered if he had seen the scar from somewhere. Then again, scars slightly off the throat were common among a _certain _group of...people but those scars were certainly not common amongst aristocrats. Even the most hardened aristocrats or those who were bullied in their youths would not carry such scars because the law forbid anyone to mar the throats of the nobles.

Noticing that his host was watching his neck rather closely, Xyncisthe raised a delicate eyebrow in amusement. Everything was now going according to plans, which in other words meant, everything was becoming more dangerous and dangerous is always funny. "Saw something you like?" he teased as he stretched his neck further as if to tempt the president, "But it's obvious you do. _Say it.._"

"I will not stroke your ego and be responsible for its already impossible size," Snow said calmly as he allowed his eyes to slowly travelled upwards and marveling at the bone structure of his guest. Viktore was not just handsome, he was a beautifully sculptured man with looks that could perhaps be only gifted by Apollo himself. With a strong neck and jaw, a chiselled face and clear piercing grey eyes... "Now that we have established that your loyalty is questionable, I would like to buy your loyalty. What would you like as payment for your...services?" When Xyncisthe's sly smirk slowly curled away, Snow nearly wanted to pat himself on the back for a job well done. He was the host and therefore, he _should _be the one in control not his pompous overrated guest. "_Everyone _wants something especially a man like you who always seems to be waiting for his plans to unfold; surely _you _want something."

Xyncisthe tapped his gloved fingers on his chin thoughtfully as he mused over the question in silence. There was a lot of things in the world he wanted; for starters, he wanted time to rewind back to the time before he learnt to be malicious and cruel when he was still very much innocent but then again, he had already accepted cruelty and savagery as part of his own identity. He also wanted acknowledgement, and he wanted to be cared for and loved by someone but how could anyone do that when they feared him endlessly? Oh Panem, there is so much he wanted for after all, he is only _human_.

Xyncisthe hummed in silence and Snow noticed how the song sounded just like the the opening anthem of the games. Did Viktore truly enjoyed the games as much as he did? Perhaps not, but Viktore seemed to understand and live with the concept- only the fittest and strongest will survive any catastrophe. Could they _truly _be kindred spirits? "I suppose there is one thing that _you _could give me," Xyncisthe had that wicked twinkle in his eyes and Snow was not sure he was pleased but nevertheless he knew for certain that twinkle was not for him, "the...escort of District 12, Miss Trinket."

If Snow thought he was smart and could have anticipated everything regarding the aristocrat, he was so _very _wrong. The answer or rather the _payment _was as ludicrous as it was serious. Snow had long learnt from their talking sessions that Xyncisthe was everything but faltering. Despite how determined Viktore was, Snow knew he could not release the escort because he would have lost the final ammunition against the most roguish and wayward victor. "Surely you'd have enough tussle in the sheets, and the sex symbol can no longer be that symbol," Snow said casually as he negotiated with the bored aristocrat. Then again, perhaps if he gave Viktore Effie Trinket, that...drunkard would definitely go after Viktore and both may very well enter a fight to the death which is actually a good thing; Snow would have been rid of two menacing and unpredictable threats without even raising a finger! Splendid!

"It is either her or.."

Snow did not need Viktore to continue; they had both made up their minds and while their decisions may have been vastly different, at least the end goals were common. "Very well but it will be on my terms," Snow smiled kindly but Xyncisthe knew there was nothing kind and gentle in that smile. On the contrary, it was the smile that promised a thousand or more dreadful things not that a common man would have guessed. "You will be _trialled _for treason against the Capitol as punishment for your vicious play and you will _escort _her to District 2. At all times, you _will _keep a white rose- a reminder of sorts for you. As long as you have it, you will _remember _where your loyalties lie."

Snow felt himself shudder a little when the vicious person opposite him smiled coldly and gently and nodded very slowly. Snow was not exactly certain if he was shuddering with glee at how easy it was to actually destroy two of his most despicable threats or if he was shuddering at how dark and evil the smile truly was. Nevertheless, the deal was on and Snow allowed himself a smug grin- the rebels would not know what hit them! "Tomorrow morning you will be trialled," Snow added formally as if they were not negotiating anything beforehand, "I will inform the Capitol soon." Viktore nodded, stood up gracefully and excused himself leaving Snow to stare at the now vacant seat opposite him. It did not really matter if one of them survived the death match because it would be so, _so _easy to snuff the remaining light out and then no one would and could ever hold a candle against him again. His reign would once again be completely unquestioned and everyone would submit.

Snow stood up and walked around his table to peek through the slits of the curtains. The aristocrat walked confidently, fearlessly and arrogantly across the garden and the roads before he disappeared behind the buildings. Viktore was a threat but one that can be negotiated with, and therefore can be controlled. As Snow pulled the curtains together, he walked towards the door but not before he glanced once more at the seat. He frowned a little. Viktore, a strange man with a strange name. How odd was it that no one, even him, knew of Viktore's first name? Perhaps Klins College would be the hub that held all the answers and Snow knew without a doubt he would find the truth of Viktore there.

* * *

Xyncisthe Viktore slumped tiredly in his seat while he fidgeted and watched the people who attended instead of listening to the court proceedings. The judge was droning on and on regarding, no doubt, the law and whatsoever related nonsense. His eyes roved the room and he nearly smirked when he saw that there were way too many reporters doing a cover for his trial. Flashes kept winking at him and Xyncisthe had to control himself from laughing at how ignorant and ridiculous his fellow... citizens were. When he turned his head up to look at President Snow, he shared a malicious grin with the man before the smirk immediately evaporated when he spotted her at the corner. He had anticipated the most of the attendance but never had he thought that Snow would be despicable enough to mock him with her attendance. Then again, Xyncisthe knew that he himself would have done the same and only because he was a scoundrel to the bone.

"Mr Viktore, I have had an opportunity to review the pre-sentence report, I have listened to the sentencing arguments from both your attorney and the state's attorney, as well as the statements from the families of the victims and you have twice been given an opportunity to address this Court. Having been found guilty by a jury, it is now up to me to sentence you..." Xyncisthe nearly jumped when he heard the judge began her sentencing but he immediately schooled his features and tuned her out again as she continued droning on. However, he did force his facial muscles into a distressed and upset face while forcing his tear ducts a few tears when the judge droned, "Although you are crying right now, I do not believe that your tears are tears for the victims or their family, but are tears for yourself as you now face the possibility of spending the rest of your life in prison..."

Xyncisthe Viktore began to stand when the judge finally finished droning her sentence and was just about to release the court when a whole onslaught of cry of disbelief echoed loudly through the courthouse. Many could not believe how one of their most sought after bachelors were convicted of murder of Felix Lockhart and Petunia Mathias and a treason against their beloved Capitol. It was inconceivable! Many decried and voiced their unhappiness at the unfair treatment and sentencing. It was preposterous that their darling was to be sentenced life imprisonment! Xyncisthe nearly laughed at the red-faced masses and the pathetic attempts of the judge calling for order in the now chaotic room.

"My dear fans," Xyncisthe sighed as he decided to wrap things up as quickly s possible, "It is with great regret that I have been found guilty. While I do appreciate and am greatly touched by your unwavering support, please understand that _even _I am not above the law." This silenced the angry mob who now began to cry on his behalf. Xyncisthe felt himself shake with a bubble of laughter threatening to explode in his chest. It was far too amusing to watch how simpletons were so, _so _easy to manipulate. That was why people, like him who had nothing, could never be truly loyal to a side; they are loyal only to those who earned it.

* * *

Xyncisthe leaned against the wall of his cell and sighed. He watched the sun and wondered about the days that have passed since he returned to the Capitol and especially about the war. It would be good if the war had already ended or was at least past the climax point. It would make everything so much easier, so much _smoother _because the focus would be away from him and more on the rebellion and the Capitol. Then again, in retrospect, it would not be that great if the war was still ongoing; both sides would be extremely vigilant which would make it more difficult than it already was. Xyncisthe hummed as he allowed his mind to continue thinking of the numerous possible complications that could hamper his plans and one worrying matter quickly popped up. _What if... _"As long as I have time, all will be well," he murmured as he assured himself, "all _should _be well."

Not long after he was locked in a temporary jail, the peacekeepers were quick to pull him out of his cell, shoved him in line with the other prisoners before they violently cuffed his right wrist with the left wrist of a fragile woman. Xyncisthe nearly growled when he noticed how much worse Effie Trinket looked up close. He had thought she was just... No, even when she was standing on the second floor and looking down, he had noticed her beauty was gone. Her gorgeous personality purged but Xyncisthe blamed his naivete for believing that perhaps the light and twinkle in her eyes would somehow remain. "Snow, you bastard!" he harshly cursed under his breath as he softly apologized to the glassy eyes that met his eyes yet did not seem to see him. _Forgive _me.

The creaking of the doors and the bright rays of light that pierced into the underground centre made Xyncisthe look up. He would put aside his feelings just as he had always done for a decade because in wars, the best soldiers are the ones who are able to ignore and reject their feelings, and welcome the blood lust. As he cleared his mind and fixed his cold and indifferent mask, his feet took their first few steps towards District 2 and he missed the look of confusion and wonder his partner sent his way. Had he not been too focused on bracing himself for the hardest part of his mission, he would have glimpsed the flash of twinkle in those supposedly-lifeless eyes.

* * *

"Hey quit your yapping and start moving!" The peacekeeper roared and shoved the hilt of his sword into their backs. It was not a painful shove in the back but it irritated enough. However, what was irritating for him had to be quite painful for her. Casting a sidelong look at her and decided that she would live, he allowed a sigh of relief before he looked heavenwards. Panem help him. If he had to continue this any further, he swore he would lose his temper and there goes the mission.

They had been trudging on for a few days, a week at most and Xyncisthe had a vague idea where they were heading. Finally being forced to take a break, he took a sip of water before he thrust his bottle to her. He even surrendered his bread to her! Effie Trinket, a woman he tried to get close to in the past, now sat haggard, weakened and fragile by his side. How often had he dreamt to be given the chance to protect her and be her knight in shining armour? How long had he waited for her to depend on him? Xyncisthe bit his lip as he struggled with his own thoughts. Right now, she trusted him to protect her and he embraced that responsibility. However, if later she uncovered the truth by sheer luck or genius, would she run for the hills? Would she hoped she was still Snow's captive? Would she forgive him for the lies he has been inevitably feeding her? Would she hate him? Well, technically, they were not lies; they were just not the complete truths. Combing his hair with his hand, he resigned his fate and decided on trusting his life motto; worry tomorrow's worries tomorrow.

"Thank you," Effie smiled gratefully as she ate the slices of bread daintily but took gulps of water, "This is a burden, is it not?" She shook her shackled hand and the chain that joint them rattled noisily. She had no doubt that if he had any other person as his partner, surely, he would not be at the end of the march with a huge gap between him and the pair before him. Seeing as people were starting to get up, she swallowed the food and drink quickly before the soldiers could bark at them. Honestly, her mother would have been appalled if word got around that peacekeepers were barking orders.

"What's your name?" Effie had decided she would ask the handsome man who was also trialled for treason. He looked every inch an aristocrat when she first saw him- when they had shackled him to her. The shackle that hanged gleefully between them chained her left hand to his right and she often hoped that his master hand was not his right. Anyway, her partner, she assumed to call him as such since they would be travelling together and in _very _close proximity, was actually quite a charming looking aristocrat. He had short, dark blonde hair, a clean shaven face that now seemed to have grown to a little stubble, and clear but cold grey eyes. His Victorian attire was perhaps the clearer indication of his rank- he wore a complicated cravat, riding breeches, a long black coat and a jacket with shiny, or used to be shiny, black boots. Effie had no doubt that this man, whoever he is, hailed from a line of old money and could possibly be at least an Earl. Then again, guessing his heritage or his title would not help her in her quest in remembering the reality she lived in; but if she was truly honest, Effie Trinket was not sure she would want to return to the reality she knew before her Hell. Effie sighed as she usually did these days during their journey into the mouth of another Hell, and peered at her unwilling partner and wondered. Whether she wanted to return to that ignorant and frivolous reality was really not an option, since her main concern was to truly return to reality- be it bleak or ridiculous. After all, being tortured and abused like a slave in a cell where the sun never seemed to shine, any type of resemblance or glimmer to reality was a blessing. Yes, she is desperate, she is begging but did she care at this point? Hell no.

"Xyncisthe Viktore," Xyncisthe answered quietly as he forced himself to slow down so that she did not have to put additional pressure in trying to meet his pace. He thanked his stars for having short hair and a stylish pseudo-Mohawk. The heat was making him sweat and he had no doubt that the hair near his nape were sticking uncomfortably on his skin. He could only imagine the irritation of having long fringe that fell over his eyes and possibly stayed permanently.

"What kind of name is Xyn-whatever Viktore?" Effie asked her handsome partner as she struggled to keep pace beside him even after he had deliberately slowed his pace. Weeks and possibly months of having been held captive with little food and water made her weak and fragile. Even for someone like her who was used to eating only a small portion of salad every meal since she became the escort of district 12, the meagre food that they supplied were way too scandalous.

"It's supposed to sound like sinister victory; not the nonsense you were pronouncing," he snarled feeling a little too offended. He glared at her, pulled his shackled hand roughly and nearly laughed when she stumbled towards him roughly. Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, he grinned at her and winked. "I'm the stronger one here; don't wanna be messing around, yeah?"

Despite herself, a soft pelt of laughter escaped her lips and Effie felt light. She felt safe and secure in the stranger's arms and such luxury were ripped away from her since Katniss the Mockingjay declared war on the Capitol. Safety and security used to be that man who left her behind. That man... they said he abused her worse than they ever could. They also said most of her scars and wounds were his doing. Was it real or not real? Effie was none the wiser but did she care? Honestly she did not and especially when safety and security now came in the form of Xyncisthe Viktore. Haymitch Abernathy had no more place in her life for only two reasons: one, he was dead and two, he was her doom bringer.

"Hey, don't go zoning out on me, honey." His words jolted her and Xyncisthe had to fight the smile that threatened to break on his face when she shot him a look. "I'd offer a penny but what's the use of one, so..." he trailed as his eyes twinkled with mischief and his smile stretched wider when he noted her wary face, "A kiss for your thoughts?" When she looked appalled, he released a bark of laughter that attracted the attention of the other captives and soldiers. No doubt many would believe him mad for who would ever laugh when they were on their march into the mouth of Hell? Of course there were those who had already embraced the mere thought of death and had therefore devoted their remaining time enjoying and laughing.

"Where are you from?" Effie asked as she tried to recreate her reality from his details.

"A place called Kausitus," Xyncisthe smiled kindly and growled when he saw her lips parted in an attempt to pronounce his home. He watched her struggle while his irritation heightened bit by bit. "It's pronounced as Cocytus and it's a little far from the Capitol," he explained as soon as he thought it was enough of watching her struggle, "Not many live in Kausitus anymore...at least not since they captured people and trialed them for treason."

Effie nodded in understanding. She knew what is was like to be snatched up and interrogated for a crime she had no knowledge in committing. How Snow could sentence her to treason was something she could still not comprehend. Perhaps, her distorted reality had some truths in it- Haymitch Abernathy made her into an unwilling accomplice. He used her just like the Capitol used her and discarded her just like they did. It seemed as if her purpose in life was to be used and then tossed away at the earliest convenience. Effie did not know if she should even cry for having such a horrid fate but perhaps she should. Then comes the next question, did she still have enough tears to cry? She did not think so until...

"Hey, don't cry sweetheart," he whispered as he pulled her closer to him and allowed her to hide her face, "It's not the end, not when I'm here with you. I'm not gonna let the monsters touch you, never mind taking you away from me..." _because once is enough_. Xyncisthe did not allow himself to speak those last words only because those words were not for him to say. Of course the irony is not lost on him; who was he to call others a monster when he, himself, is an emotionless mercenary? He, despite everything, is a monster.

* * *

Phew, that was one difficult series of scrawls I had to decipher! I hate you Xyncisthe! Ridiculous boy if you ask me! Anyway, what does he usually say? Please review if there is anything you would like him to include or improve. Thank you for bearing with him, no seriously, thank you!


	5. Chapter 4

Author's note: I am officially back from camp a few days back and has since been struggling with this chapter. I am sorry for this chapter; it is one of the...not very nicely crafted chapters. I was, in all honesty, quite in a rush to finish writing this so I apologise if this chapter is very fast-paced. This chapter is a little heavy on the content and I believe it is time I reveal Xyncisthe Viktore and his connection to Haymitch Abernathy since I have been pm-ed a lot about it. This chapter I dedicate it to the truth that many people have wanted to throttle me for.

P.s. Thank you to RonaldGracia91 and AmyLover for the kind wishes but my camp was dreadful.

* * *

"How is the search?"

The former gamemakers were all running multiple holograms whereby names of every citizen of Panem were listed. Ever since the traitors were sent to District 2 to be turned into human weapons, the gamemakers had been busy attending to their president's wish. They were to run the list of names of every citizen of Panem since the first Hunger Games to the current year, and to look for the Viktores or any suspicious name. Needless to say, they had not rested since the search began.

"Negative sir, we are now into the 65th year of the Hunger Games and there has not been a single Viktore," one of the gamemakers answered solemnly as the search continued and Snow began to frown deeply. How could it be?

"Sir, Viktore has appeared," another gamemaker alerted the group as he selected the name and the details of Viktore appeared on the main screen.

"I want his case notes by evening."

* * *

"President, the Headmaster of Klins College."

Coriolanus Snow merely glanced as the Avox opened the door to invite the arrogant man. Without further invitation, the Headmaster of Klins College, Marquis of Brigsley, Lord Anthony Klins, sat regally with his nose upturned and his eyes cold and challenging as if daring someone to comment on his manners. While manners and etiquette were divine virtues, one simply do not tell the Marquis of Brigsley how to behave and act. If one were to simply ignore his title and rank, the name Anthony Klins would be enough to intimidate a common person to silence. It was not that Lord Klins was heavy with bulging muscles nor was he tall and broad-shouldered. On the contrary, the man was a little small in size and height but it was the way he moved and carried himself that had many reeling backwards. He had a menacing presence that frankly seemed a lot larger than him.

"Are you going to talk or will I be wasting my time even more?" Snow gritted his teeth as he glanced at the cocky bored looking aristocrat. Throughout the family line of Klins, Anthony Klins is one of the more...arrogant and rebellious. He did as he like come rain or shine and he took orders from no one; in fact, he barked orders and people were more than willing to accommodate to him. He was one of those you simply do not want to anger for his wrath may be the last thing you would feel.

"How was your trip?" Snow asked lightly as he fought to regain control of the conversation, "Hopefully the trip did not exhaust you too badly?"

"The trip is just fine," Lord Klins answered tersely as he tapped his cane rather impatiently, "Surely, you did not invite me here for a frivolous chat when you explicitly wrote to me to make haste. I have not the time to entertain such idle things especially since Brigsley is in urgent need of my presence."

It seems the gloves were off before Lord Klins had even settled in the chair. Snow sighed and decided he had better be fast lest his guest rudely leaves. "Of course and I have no doubt that you remember outstanding students," Snow threaded carefully despite the need to go straight to the point, "Surely you remember a student named Viktore? By my calculations, he should be in the graduating cohort when Alexis Bradley was crowned the victor of the 52nd Hunger Games."

"You requested an audience with me _just _to talk about a graduated student?" Incredulity echoed in the marquis' deep growl as he raised an elegant eyebrow as if to challenge Snow to affirm. When Snow's lips remained tight and his face solemn, the marquis released a short sigh before he beckoned to his accompanying Avox for a portable palm-sized gadget. After pressing a few buttons, it beeped and a holographic list of names appeared. With a bored gaze, Anthony Klins scrolled through the list of names and merely stared lazily at the president after he reached the end of the list. "It appears to be that I don't have a student named Viktore."

"You _don't_?" Snow echoed as he frowned and ignored the dark look of displeasure that graced the Headmaster's face. Had the circumstances been better, Snow would have allowed himself to let slip an amused smile. After all, it was a pleasant thought to know that you had succeeded in cracking the emotionless and lazy face of the arrogant prick. "Perhaps he did not graduate then...perhaps he was part of another cohort?" Snow was not about to stop and he would have all the answers he deserved, even if it meant brushing his will against the aristocrats. Sure, the aristocrats were in a club of their own but they were still beneath him (although slightly), and they _will _obey him. As far as the Capitol was concerned, he was president but as far as the nobles were concerned, he was king.

Anthony clicked his tongue in annoyance while his look of displeasure turned a deeper shade of indignation. "I never had a student named Viktore, President Coriolanus Snow." Anthony's clipped voice was warning enough to Snow who met the icy blue eyes of the marquis. They had a quick stare-down match, neither willing to surrender but alas, the marquis blinked and looked away. After all, he was only an marquis and it was sort of a blasphemy to try to turn his sword against the man he swore to serve.

Snow's lips curled as he stood up and paced his study. Klins College did not have Viktore which could mean two things. One, Viktore never graduated or enrolled in that school which implied that Viktore was a fraud or two, Anthony Klins was lying. Then again, as arrogant as Anthony was, he was as tactless as he was honest, and someone like Anthony has no reason to lie about Viktore. This only meant... Snow scratched his chin as he allowed his thoughts to run further. "_Who are you, Viktore_?"

A series of polite knocks, a quiet swing of the door and an Avox approached Snow carrying an awfully thin file. The Avox nodded and left immediately. Opening the file and quickly scanning through the information, Snow suddenly felt a sickening bile rising in his throat.

Here is what the biodata looked or rather what Snow read:

Name: Viktore

Full name: Viktore (First name unknown)

Sex: Male

Age: 41

DoB: Approx. 50th Hunger Games

Doing a quick calculation, Snow swore quietly under his breath. If Viktore was born during the 50th Hunger Games, how could he be aged 41? At the oldest, Viktore could only be aged 25. Furthermore, if Viktore was truly born 25 years ago and disappeared since the 73rd Hunger Games, it meant that Viktore was only around 13 years of age when he met Miss Trinket which is obviously wrong. Snow was certain he had assigned Viktore to watch Miss Trinket when Viktore was about 30 years of age... Something was amiss, something was terribly wrong and Snow knew instinctively that he had better discover the missing link before he came to ruination. Briskly returning to his seat, he snatched a pen and began scribbling.

If the information in the case notes regarding his date of birth is correct

- Disappeared during 73rd Hunger Games, age: 23

- Break through in the industry (around the 69th Hunger Games), age: 19

- First assigned to Miss Trinket (around the 63rd Hunger Games), age: 13

If the information in the case notes regarding his age is correct

- Disappeared during 73rd Hunger Games, age: 39

- Break through in the industry (around 69th Hunger Games), age: 35

- First assigned to Miss Trinket (around 63rd Hunger Games), age: 29

"How much of a fraud are you truly?" Snow asked to no one in particular as he rose from his seat and leaned against the window sill. The paper crushed in his hand as he stared into the evening while his mind meandered through a whole myriad of possibilities. It was definite that Viktore was definitely not born in 25 years ago because the age calculation did not make sense. Then again, biodata and case notes are irrefutable but clearly it did not quite apply to Viktore. If the birth date was false, could it mean that the age as well as the all the _legal _documents and certificates are also false? In that case, could it be that Viktore was not a real name and possibly a false identity? Would it, therefore, mean that Viktore was simply a distraction from the start... but since when?

"Viktore, you..!" Snow cursed as he grabbed a fistful of the curtain as he huffed angrily. He had been had! It is inconceivable that the whole of Panem was fooled by a man with a mysterious identity! Whoever Viktore really was, the man was awfully deadly because of his sheer cunningness and viciousness. How long had the scoundrel been plotting this? Had he had the premonition that the rebellion would be happening and was simply making his necessary arrangements? What if _he_ was the mastermind behind the rebellion?

There was only way to rectify this and claim all his answers- capture the rogue. Snow trembled with overwhelming rage and humiliation as a thought teased him; Viktore had been dancing right in front of him for the longest time and had convinced him to ignore his own warnings. Snow wanted to throttle someone, anyone for his own sheer naivete. He should have held on tightly on his own warning bells instead of allow that malicious reprobate play him like a puppet. If there was anyone fitting to be a puppeteer, it was him- Coriolanus Snow, and him alone! It was an understatement if one were to simply lumped all of his emotions as humiliation and rage for Snow was boiling and chagrined. No one lived to tell the tale of outsmarting him without facing dire consequences, and one need only turn to Haymitch Abernathy for reaffirmation.

"Romulus Thread!" Snow roared as his face contorted in the worst fury and his eyes blazed with bottomless hatred, "I want that deceitful rascal captured!" The peacekeeper immediately nodded as he marched away quickly to deploy all mobile units to recapture Viktore. Turning around and falling gracelessly into his seat, Snow hissed harshly, "No one makes a fool out of me and walks away unharmed!"

"My dear, _dear _president," Anthony chuckled after he recovered from his humiliation, "For a man to have fooled you, he must be a special breed with superior intelligence and I do so hope for the best in your endeavours. I shall hope dearly he won't be successful in fooling and eluding you twice." Without further ado, he laughed softly as he excused himself and made his journey back to Brigsley.

"_Viktore_.." he mused as he sat in his carriage and tapped his finger thoughtfully on his chin, "Are you not one of President Snow's pet?" Chuckling darkly he whispered, "And your master still does not seem to understand your name."

* * *

It had been a couple of days, two days maybe, since they had that break and Effie was drained, hungry and thirsty. She had counted the days by keeping track of the sun sets and sun rises and yet, she could not say for sure if her judgement was spot on. Perhaps, she had a variance of a day or two considering the slightly different time-zones between the each district and the Capitol.

"We'll break away soon enough and then we'll find a blacksmith," Xyncisthe said so quietly, Effie was not quite sure if he had said anything. Frowning, she was not sure she wanted any part in his mischief having learnt that going against the Capitol was criminal and deathly, and she was certainly not ready to enter another torture chamber. "Do you want to be shackled forever or have freedom again?" Xyncisthe asked softly as he leaned over to whisper, "Because it's now or never. Give me your answer before we reach that corner."

She stared at him and pondered. If she were to be shackled and joint to him forever, at least she would know of safety and security for a while again before they would be forcefully torn apart when they finally arrive in District 2. However, if she chose freedom, her safety and security would disappear and she would be on her own; she would be her own protector and how did that fare in prison? She could not protect herself but then again, they had already captured her. Here, she would be free and with nature by her side or at least a neutral party, she had a higher chance of escaping them, with or without Viktore. "Freedom." She had breathed the word as soon as her mind was made up and she did not miss the smile that graced his face. He had actually counted for her to choose freedom! Effie found that a little sad; of course he could not wait to part ways with a burden. Someone like him would certainly be eager to regain his lost freedom.

"Hey! Pick up pace will you?" The peacekeeper snarled as he roughly shoved Xyncisthe forward. Honestly, he had had enough of this pair of prisoners. It was not like President Snow wanted them alive; he had sent them to District 2 to be made into human weapons! Besides, Effie Trinket had nothing to her now that she looked similar to a mangled prey and Viktore, although he still had his looks, had also fallen out of favour. The Capitol ladies may grieve and mourn his sentence but the president had not bothered to grieve, so why should he, a common peacekeeper? After all, he is a soldier, a proud soldier of the Capitol and he would obey his president as a dutiful soldier would. If his president ordered death, he would do it within a heartbeat or faster if possible. That was how patriotic he was.

"You know, you can make it real easy for everyone involved," the peacekeeper continued as an afterthought, "Either move or you can fall over." Effie gulped as she spied a glance over the edge. She saw nothing apart from rocks and she wished somehow there was a river down there. It was absolutely unthinkable for her to jump and die with a smashed skull, although she did want to die. When she glanced at her partner, she had nearly winced at his cocky grin. Did he really consider jumping off?

Xyncisthe grinned as he noted the number of soldiers that had corner them at the edge of the winding cliff trail. He could probably take both of them down before he made his escape with Effie but he would have to take the risk of her getting hurt during their tussle. However, if he jumped off without exchanging blows with them, she would only suffer injuries from the fall. Well, when his mind had put things in that fashion, it was obvious which action he was taking. He raised an eyebrow at Effie when he heard her whisper and he felt his grin widened. Well, if the lady is ready, it would be rudeness on his part to keep her waiting.

Curling his shackled hand around her hip, he kicked hard against the edge and sent both of them falling off the cliff. As they fell for what seemed forever, Xyncisthe berated himself. His smugness was going to be the death of them; he had not counted on the cliff being this tall. Finally, a huge splash and they found themselves caught in a strong current. They tried swimming against the current but with Effie struggling with her bony limbs, the task was near impossible. "Grab onto me, I'll do the swimming!" he shouted and nearly smiled when he felt her react immediately. She clung onto him, wrapped her arms around him and rested her chin on his shoulder as he pushed against the water. They caught onto a huge rock, paused for a while as he fought for breath before he pushed once more towards the river bank. Climbing out of the river, Xyncisthe swayed as his body screamed exhaustion. No way was he ever going to suggest jumping off a cliff and into the river again. Looking around, he frowned. It was hard to tell exactly where they were but that was the least of their problems. They needed to find shelter for the night, build a fire and get out of their wet clothes in that order. After all, falling ill was only going to complicate and worsen the matter. Turning around, he beckoned Effie to follow him as they struggled through the forest in search of shelter.

* * *

Effie watched her partner manoeuvre expertly through the forest; he slalom around the trees, jumped over the shrubs and carefully helped her around the higher terrains, picked up firewood and sniffed at a few strange leaves before plucking a handful of them. Finding a small cave, he helped her up as gently as he could, passed her his goodies before he heaved himself up. For a Capitol man, she noted how his fingers bore scars that were not at all common among the aristocrats and how quickly they made the fire. What was more starling than his scars was how he had not complained about the rough treatment or the manhandling he had received. She suspected that if she were an aristocrat and a Capitol darling who was accused of treason, she would have huffed and complained at the barbaric treatment. Then again, she had also not complained and she was a Capitol darling who was also accused of treason but...she was also the escort of district 12.

Effie thought bitterly before she caught herself. Was she really that bitter? Was she resentful that she was the escort of the Mockingjay and the colleague of that...insufferable drunkard? Her connections to them brought Hell onto her. They sentenced her to the torment and she should really hate them. She should... but she could not find it in her to hate them. They taught her humility whether intentional or otherwise. They had made her realize the brutality of the games. As much as she would not want to admit it, the insufferable man had made her realize that she was as human as the district people and they had as much rights as her to live. The district people and her... there really was no difference between them; they were equal. "We are all humans," Effie blurted as she stared at the bright unwavering flame.

"Aye, couldn't be more true," Xyncisthe smiled kindly as he began unbuttoning with his free hand, "And may I suggest that we get out of our wet garments. Won't want to fall ill now, would you sweetheart?"

Effie stared at her partner, before she glanced at the shackle. That endearment used to make her heart flutter, and then it made her suffer and her heart ached and now...the endearment reminded her of what could be but would never be. The endearment was once a key to her fantasy before it became a weapon to break and kill her. She shook her head as she tried to remove her tattered dress with her free hand before she felt a rough hand rest on her shoulder. Looking up, she saw how he smiled gently as if offering to help her. How could this man look at her as if she was the only thing in this world? How could he look at her as if she was still worthy of adoration? She was no longer the Capitol darling, or the sex symbol damn it! "Stop looking at me!" Effie screamed as she scrambled as far as the shackled allowed, which was not far at all and hugged her body to herself, "Don't! Just don't..."

He stared at her quietly, turned away and closed his eyes and whispered, "If it makes you a little more comfortable, I won't look. I hope you'll remove your wet garments and at least allow the flame to warm you." He was kneeling before he rocked backwards and sat on the ground. While he continued to keep his eyes closed, he fiddled with his boots' strings before he untied the knots and kicked the boots away. Effie looked at him before she struggled again with her garment. Tugging lightly on the shackle, she quietly asked for his assistance. Xyncisthe removed her garment as deftly as he could, before he retreated to his side and continued removing his clothes. Keeping his eyes locked away from her, he arranged his clothes before he decided that he would use his cravat as a wash cloth to clean her wounds. What need was a cravat when they would be trudging in the forest instead of walking on the red carpet? "May I clean your wounds?" When he saw her shadow nodding, Xyncisthe reached for the leaves he plucked earlier and shifted to sit behind her. "This may sting. I'm sorry."

It did sting and Effie would have yelped and screamed if she was still the Capitol darling but she merely hissed. Such sting felt close to nothing for a convict, and Effie was a convict. He had gently applied the herbs onto the wounds on her back before he continued to tend tenderly and tentatively the salve to the wounds on her front, arms, legs and face. Not once had he lingered on any of the wounds and his face maintained an unreadable mask, and Effie allowed a small smile of thanks to which he nodded before he retreated to his side of the cave. Throughout the night, they sat nude quietly and allowed their wet bodies and clothes be dried by the flame. Peeking through her eyelashes, she noticed how scarred Xyncisthe's body was and wondered about the stories behind them. Hers were easy, if he should ever asked. After all, hers were mostly made when she was in Hell and really, what sort of story could she possibly interest him about them? As her eyes moved across his body, it travelled upwards where she noted his face. He had quite a worn out face, laughter lines deeply etched around his eyes and a stubble jaw which could have been a clean shaven, and his hair was dark blond with perhaps the hair near his temple greying a little. Somehow, she felt the face was familiar but she had remembered the face with a different name. _What was the name?_

"Have an eyeful of me yet, sweetheart?" Effie stiffened as her eyes flew to the lazy smirk that had curled onto his lips. That smirk! How insufferable! How many years had she seen that identical feature? Effie fumed and if she were not too irritated, she would be most confused and amused. They were in dire situation and yet she had time to be fuming about a smirk? How ridiculous! However, the memory still eluded her and Effie pondered; she was sure she had seen and had been very well acquainted with that smirk and face but for the life of her, she could not quite remember his name.

* * *

The fire had burnt weakly as the night continued to wear on and Effie had long curled and slept. His hands smoothed the frizzled blond hair as lightly as he could to avoid stirring her and earning her wrath. After all, he knew how much she hated to have her beauty sleep disrupted having been at the receiving end once...and like many things in his life, once is enough because if he did something more than once, then there was less things he could do. Something like an opportunity cost. After a few more minutes, Xyncisthe was satisfied with playing with her hair and edged away.

He dug into the pockets of his breeches and pulled the rose out. Twirling it in his hand, he stared hard at it. _"__You will _remember_ where your loyalties lie."_ The words echoed in his head and Xyncisthe wondered if the rose was indeed talking to him on Snow's behalf. He shook his head as recalled the deadly trade and cringed; there were other options, safer methods but for the love of Panem, he simply had to be reckless then and chose the dangerous path. Oh sure he love dangerous for the amount of humour and entertainment it promised but why could he not have thought about her safety? There was no way he could shove it all under the rug and pretend to follow his motto; where Effie is concern, he simply cannot be selfish.

Xyncisthe sighed heavily. He cannot be selfish but the fact remained that he was selfish when he made the pact and now he was honour bound to fulfil his part of the deal. Of course he could always ignore his part of the deal and pursue on, since Effie was already literally chained to him; but Xyncisthe Viktore just has to be an honourable man. He has never failed to keep all his promises and Effie or no Effie, he could not lose his only virtue. He would not lose it.

Sneaking a glance at the former beauty, he sighed regrettably. "Forgive me sweetheart," he begged softly as his fingers inched forward to touch those matted blond hair, "I... There was no other way; I couldn't risk a safer option. A safer option only meant a longer and more painful torture for you and I cannot allow that. Forgive my weakness, sweetheart."

"What now? My honour or my life, which do I follow and protect?" Xyncisthe was lost. He had sworn his honour to a vile scoundrel, while his life he owed it to a very important person. He was not like any of those male protagonists that the Capitol novels love to portray; he was not facing a dilemma of family against the love of his life. Coriolanus Snow is certainly not family and Effie? Xyncisthe would readily admit that he respected and admired her, adored and treasured her, and he certainly cared a great deal about her...but to say he love her? That was crossing the line. And he had no right to cross that line.

"Damn you, Haymitch Abernathy!" Xyncisthe snarled in anger as he chucked the rose into his pocket again and punched the ground hard. If only he was not made to be honourable, everything would have been easier but no, he had to be honourable. This was entirely his fault just as all the crimes for the past decade at least. Then again, if he were not honourable, would he have willingly gone through Hell and back, and suffer in silence and loneliness, to plan the entire orchestra and rescue Effie? Xyncisthe knew he did not have to ask that question because of the obvious answer. As ,long as Effie remained in the centre of the maelstrom, even if time were to rewind, he would still have chosen to go through Hell and back for her.

Breathing in deeply, Xyncisthe counted to ten very slowly. He needed to calm down, he needed to be at peace to think clearly. Honour or life..? He knew without a doubt he would definitely fulfil his trade, and he knew he would somehow ensure Effie's life is not compromised. He knew he was capable of achieving both but...

Suddenly, Xyncisthe's lips curled into a cold and cruel dark smile. Of course there were always options open for him; he could protect both his honour and life, but was the price worth it? As he toyed with the idea, his smile stretched wider; it was only right for the price to be shockingly huge considering the things he wanted. _Nothing comes without sacrifice_. "Effie, sweetheart, you're worth everything and Haymitch Abernathy, you'll be _so _sorry for the Hell you put me through."

* * *

The meeting room was completely silent as the occupants stared incredulously at the president. "Are you insane?" Finnick roared as he broke the silence, his fist slammed against the table top as he glared murderously at the calm president, "You want to put a _restraining _order on that guy?"

Truthfully, President Coin's plan seemed sound and legit. It was only logical to put such an order on an unpredictable person who could very well turn the sword against them. After all, the mentally unstable man had already left two corpses to decompose. Both were butchered beyond identification and were equally artistic and grotesque, and Panem can only when the butchering took place since the soldiers were unwilling to enter the rooms to clean and do an autopsy. However, a clever guess would be at least two weeks back when one considers the stench of decomposition not that it seemed important when the butchering happened. What seemed to be the more pressing matter that District 13 had to discuss was regarding the man who had gone rogue and left two cryptic messages- one for each victim: "I will not be stopped" and "You'll be sorry".

"Finnick, she's right," Katniss replied solemnly without looking at anyone, "Haymitch _is..._over the edge. He cannot be allowed freedom; who knows what else he is capable of?"

"He's _your _mentor!" Lyme retorted, too shocked by the Mockingjay's approval for such ridiculous order, "He has been keeping you alive and now, y_ou want to turn your sword against him_? Is this how people in District 12 return favours?"

"Oh deal with it Lyme," Johanna snarled viciously as she glared daggers at the Mockingjay, "She's the fucking _Mockingjay_; everything has to bow to her feet. People are bloody _expected_ to save her life...you know, _obligations_. We're all shits, only Her fucking Highness matters. We're all fucking nothing but bloody lambs sent for slaughter because Katniss must be kept alive. Well fuck that shit! Fuck everything!" Resentment and venom rode the undertones of Johanna's bitter snarl. Her face scrunched in fury and her teeth bared as if she was ready to pounce and kill and one would be fool if one believed she was too...drugged for that.

"Our safety is paramount!" Katniss screamed as she stood up and silence once again reigned supreme in the room. No one made a sound, all eyes were on Katniss who was frustrated and stressed at having to carry the heavy burden of being the symbol of the revolution. Did no one understand that she never wanted to be Mockingjay? Did no one care? Was it really selfish of her to want to do everything in her power to protect her only sister?

A few seconds ticked by of which President Coin ordered Gale to fetch them the victor who had apparently gone rogue. After all, what was the point in stalling when the Mockingjay herself has agreed on the plan? As they waited for Gale to return, Johanna broke the silence with a scoff, "And his freedom isn't? How long do you think they have restrained him and now you want to restrain him too? You're just like Snow." She made a disgusted sound, stood up. This was getting stupid and she sure as hell had enough rubbish ruining this lifetime and the next. As much as she was rude and vulgar, she had never discounted a friend's rights and in fact she would protect their rights as fiercely as she could. She thought Katniss was similar in that sense but oh Panem, she was wrong. Katniss was nothing if not selfish and woe-is-me. Johanna only hoped that her... friend was not at the base because seeing him under the restraining order would break her.

Without another word, Johanna was about to slide the door open when Gale Hawthrone rushed in flushed and panting. "Haymitch Abernathy is not... He is _missing_!"

"_What_?"

Gale glared at Plutarch who looked mortified and guilty at the same time. Pointing an accusative finger, Gale thundered, "He was spotted on the camera footage the evening Haymitch Abernathy left two weeks ago! He is Haymitch's accomplice!"

All the heads swerved to look at Plutarch, some in wonder, others in disbelief. The victors were generally looking impressed and Johanna even allowed a soft smile to grace her lips as she nodded at him. A few days in District 13 and he had gained her respect; a little but still... substantial enough. He was not as stupid and useless as most of the other Capitolians. He actually, much to her amazement, had a brain and used it well.

"I _didn't _know that it was Haymitch," Plutarch defended himself solemnly as if he was stating a fact and raised his hands to further emphasize his innocence, "_He_ did not feel like Haymitch. He is _not_ Haymitch!"

"How can you not know? There is _only _one Haymitch Abernathy, Plutarch Heavensbee," Gale snarled as if Plutarch was a petulant child with no concept of logic, "That man you helped was definitely him! Who else do you know looks and reeks like him?"

Gale was right. They were not living in a magical world where they had magic to create clones or whatsoever, so that sort of ruled out the idea of doppelgänger. And as far as Panem knows, Haymitch Abernathy had no one left; his family killed in a live execution by Snow himself in District 12. So the idea of a twin or a brother had to be unfortunately ruled out. Of course, Haymitch could have a long lost twin who was wondering as a vagabond way before the Second Quarter Quell but District 13 was strictly monitored. Everyone prowling in the base, everyone entering and exiting were all scrutinized by the cameras that were planted in very strategic places. Furthermore, no one from outside could come in without verification. Their tight security ruled out the idea of two Haymitchs prowling around which therefore lead to Gale's correct conclusion.

However, Gale's conclusion only applied to _normal _people. _U__n-_broken people. Victors, as the Capitol loved to remind Panem every year, are a different set of species. After all, victors are people who hunted and killed their own kind to ensure their survival, and it seemed that some people _still _do not understand.

"Lay off, Hawthrone," Lyme said coolly as she locked a measured steel gaze with Gale, "Plutarch is right; that man _isn't _Haymitch or rather more aptly said, that person is not Haymitch the Drunken Mentor."

President Coin felt herself stiffened as she heard the distinction Lyme made. She was right; there _are_ two versions of Haymitch Abernathy and they were not one and the same. In fact, they could very well be polar opposites because the drunken mentor did not seem capable of killing. Sure, he may have his rage but he did not seem to be daring enough to plunge the knife into a person in his sober state, never mind maiming and butchering. However, the other entity inside that body seemed to be the malefactor of everything dark and merciless.

"If it's not Haymitch, then who is it?" Gale challenged as he glowered at Lyme who seemed too bored. He was sure he was right; it only made sense.

Before anyone could answer or rebuffed, Finnick explained seriously, "In every victor, there are two identities- one is the victor who is everything dark and evil and the other is the person outside of the Arena, the person we could have been if it weren't for the games. For some of us especially Career tributes, that distinction is not too prominent because we are nurtured and trained to be victors from young. However, for those of us who were unwilling, the split between the identities is clearer and we develop two sets of memories- one for each identity. This identity crisis usually happens after we are crowned the winner when the knowledge that we killed others for our _glory _and _survival_. Often-times the split is not noticeable enough to be considered as a split personality, sometimes it's just a small tear in one's actual identity and we become a little confuse about whether what we are seeing is the Arena or otherwise. Other than the frequent bouts of confusion, we are generally of sound mind and we can still differentiate ally from foe. However, needless to say, if push comes to shove, I believe for most if not all of us, our victors will surface almost immediately and we will not be stopped."

Beetee nodded and when he noticed most of the people had stared at Finnick as if they did not quite understood the explanation, he quickly summarised, "In short, for simple understanding; we victors are alike with Hyde and Jekyll whereby our could-have-been would be Jekyll and our victor would be Hyde. For most of us, the Hyde and Jekyll isn't a terrible struggle; we have our own ways of handling the tug-of-war and we usually are able to keep our Hyde and Jekyll balanced. However, the greater the trauma, the more prominent the differences between Hyde and Jekyll would be, the worse the struggle."

Lyme continued when she noticed that they were starting to understand, "And then, there is one person who already had the minor split when he entered the Arena. Later, he forcefully split himself into two personalities when his ally died in the arena. The trauma, rage and pain further created a huge rift between the personalities until it became two completely different identities. When he realized that forty-seven children were killed to make him the champion, he denied and rejected the victor in him, and on many occasions tried to erase the existence of the victor. As his helplessness mounted, his despair and loneliness intensified, the victor fed on the negativity and grew until it developed its own set of personality, life, ambition and desire. The victor became personified and we call him Fenrir."

"However, since only one identity could be in the driver seat at any moment in time, Fenrir slept while the other identity drank himself to forget Fenrir and the games and everything related. Wine and liquor used to be the only shackles he had on Fenrir but then as the years went by, there were more chains to trap the beast down," Beetee continued the tale and he locked gazes with Plutarch and seemed to address the man alone, "When the rebellion began and dragged on, the drunk identity starts to lose his balance and the shackles that bound Fenrir began disappearing. As the shackles slowly dissolved, Fenrir began to slowly rouse. When the drunk identity finally snapped, the last remaining shackle broke, Fenrir was in a way unleashed, and that person that evening was Fenrir; a rudely awakened Fenrir."

Silence followed and Gale dropped into a seat as everyone looked at the three victors. Gale felt dizzy as he tried to follow their explanation. It seemed surreal and too mind blowing to be considered sound. It did not make sense to differentiate Haymitch the Drunk from Fenrir when both are in the same body, and therefore essentially the one and the same. Wasn't Haymitch enough? Gale glanced at Katniss and frowned. Katnip while she does have her occasional revisits to the Arena, she was still Katnip through and through so why should Haymitch be different? They are both victors, so why?

As the silence continued, the victors, except Katniss, stood up and left having had nothing else to discuss. After all, if people still could not understand how different the victors truly are from them, then there is no other way to explain. As far as they were concerned, their explanation was as simple and yet as detailed as possible.

"We can only hope Fenrir doesn't return and certainly not with a storm," Finnick warned solemnly as he stared hard at Gale and Katniss, "Because if he does, it's cornucopia for _everyone_." He slid the door open and left the room. The stare seemed to scream another fact that Gale found difficulty in wrapping his head around.

_We walk among you but we are not like you nor are we like them. We are not frivolous and weak like the Capitolians and neither are we vindictive and pathetic like the District people; we are the perfect human weapons and if you hurt one of us, we will come upon you and you will learn pain and despair, horror and fear. _

* * *

Plutarch gulped as he shakily returned to his private room. He was shaken and uncertain. He knew the victors were right and it _felt _right. The victors were broken and traumatised by the games and it would be foolish to assume that they had left the games unscathed. It made sense that they would create identities to protect what was left of themselves. Plutarch knew that if he were one of them, he would love to reject and deny all truths that bound him to the knowledge that he is a murderer. Their Jekyll was truly what was left of their humanity and dignity; the leftovers that the Capitol had not devoured and destroyed.

With this information, it made sense what had transpired that evening. That man who ordered him to take a map of Panem had certainly not been Haymitch, his friend, and had been confirmed and concluded to be Haymitch's Hyde: Fenrir. It seems as if Fenrir seemed to hunt and kill at his leisure considering the depth of Haymitch's rage and despair. If that were the case, Fenrir could very well be a ticking time bomb; so was it better that Fenrir left the base or continued to stay? If he had stayed, Plutarch was sure the restraining order would lead to disastrous effects because no doubt, Fenrir would see that order as a declaration of war against him. Fenrir would certainly retaliate and Panem only knows how many more would die a gruesome death? Worse still if Fenrir decide to declare cornucopia on them as a retaliation.

Plutarch heaved a sigh of relief as he remembered that Fenrir had left and then he shuddered. Not all their allies were at the base with them, some were still in out there and were at the mercy of a _rudely awakened _Fenrir. Plutarch could only hope that the allies would not meet an unfortunate fate because he was sure Fenrir could be an even more creative and malicious killer if the occasion calls for it.

"Haymitch, please return with Effie."

* * *

"Can I see Effie?" Annie asked as she looked up adoringly at Finnick who was running his hand through her hair as they laid in bed, "I would like to talk to her and thank her. She's different from them, she...took most of my beatings for me. She begged them to spare me and... they..."

Finnick kept quiet as he stared at her. Should he lie and withhold the truth or tell her? If he should tell her, should he mention Fenrir and distress her? Talking about Effie would no doubt lead to Haymitch and therefore would lead to Fenrir but Finnick knew he could not deny her. She deserved to know what was going on since this rebellion, she had a part to play too. "They didn't rescue Effie," he started softly and slowly, "But he's going to save her and bring her back here before the war is over."

"_He_?" Annie asked as she blinked at him and suddenly clarity surfaced in her beautiful eyes, "Haymitch or Fenrir?" When Finnick refused to answer, she already knew her answer. Annie was not quite sure how she felt about it. She had only once saw Fenrir when Brutus was insulting poor Effie during Johanna's victory celebration but that was just a glimpse and she had been scared of him since. Fenrir during that short moment, she saw the cruelty smiling on his face and how rage and darkness seemed to emanate from the body. Fenrir is nothing like Haymitch, probably the darkness and evil to Haymitch's... Well, Haymitch could not be considered kind and gentle or whatever else, but he was certainly not evil. Then again, she wanted justice for Effie and somehow knowing Fenrir, instead of Haymitch, is going to rescue Effie brought a strange sense of gladness in her. She was actually quite pleased with that prospect. "Let Snow meet the perfect weapon he created."

* * *

Well, that is it! This has been a difficult chapter. I struggled to write this despite already planning what I wanted to write. I can only imagine how much harder it would be if I had not planned it. I hope you don't think I trolled you about Xyncisthe Viktore and Haymitch Abernathy.

Congratulations to those who managed to guess the link between Xyncisthe Viktore and Haymitch Abernathy prior to this chapter! If you could, please let me know what led you to hazard such a good guess. I would love to hear or rather read it. Oh and if you find the story is too slow or lacking, please alert me and I shall rectify it to the best of my abilities. Thank you and until the next installment, see you then and best of health!


	6. Chapter 5

Author's note: I've received comments that this story is moving at a snail's pace so I decided I would speed up. I apologize for the late update; I was unsure if I really wanted to rush this. This is my attempt at speeding up, and if it's too fast, let me know in your review.

* * *

Xyncisthe opened his eyes and glared at the darkness. His fingers automatically curled around the handle of his cane. There was shuffling and sniffling...and crunching. Were there enemies coming? But enemies do not sniffle, soldiers do not sob.

When the shackle rattled, he turned very slowly and his face immediately softened. Effie...was sniffing. Reaching tentatively, he edged closer to her. Tear trails were dried on her face, sweat rolled off her forehead and she was curled in a fetal position with her head tucked in and her arms hugging her body tight. "Please don't..." she begged as she twisted and tossed, "I don't know... I don't know!"

Quickly Xyncisthe picked her and cradled her to him. Her head he pressed it above his heart while he held her tight. "Effie, sweetheart, please," he whispered as he tried to sooth her nightmares, "Wake up, wake up sweetheart."

After what seemed like hours, Xyncisthe continued chanting and Effie finally opened her blue glassy eyes. She saw him yet she did not seem to remember but he had to be at least satisfied that she wasn't looking at him wild with fear. "Haymitch? Real or not real?"

"Not real," his lips curled into an ugly frown as he swallowed the bile in his throat. Was she perhaps remembering Haymitch? Xyncisthe was not quite sure if he should be glad or be consumed by fury. After all, if she remembered Haymitch, perhaps it might jog her memories better and faster and she would remember him too. However, that only meant that her reality revolved around Haymitch and how unfair was that? He was the one saving her and she had to remember Haymitch instead. "I'm Xyncisthe Viktore, sweetheart."

"Xyn... Oh Xyn, safe. Real or not real?"

"Real, you're safe with me," he answered within a heartbeat and he, without meaning to, smiled encouragingly, "I am real; we are real." As he held her tenderly in his arms, careful not to apply pressure for fear of imprinting her, he tentatively applied more healing salve on her wounds. Some were healing, some had already turned to white scars but others still remained open and brutal. As he tended to her wounds and cleaned the dried blood away, he noticed with satisfaction that she did not reject and deny him like the first time; this was progression. This is recovery.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked gently as he held her naked body closer to him, "While I'm here with you, I'll not let them hurt you."

Effie slowly nodded, life slowly returning into the vacant eyes. She buried her face into his chest as she whispered weakly, "They wouldn't stop... I didn't know anything. No one believed. They kept reminding me how Haymitch Abernathy fooled me; he used and left me abandoned. They said I was his whore; I was only a good fuck for him. I _should _be angry but when they told me he died, I...cried. I...felt sadness. I don't understand...and then, I _forgot _his name."

"_Why_?" Xyncisthe breathed as he continued to comfort her, "Do you..._love _him? Do you love Haymitch Abernathy?"

"I...don't know," Effie admitted as she looked away from him, "I only remember bits and pieces of him and even then I'm not sure if they are real. He was always untidy and unkempt, smelling of liquor and vomit. He was rude, ill-mannered and vulgar. He was always sneering at me, mocking and insulting me. He _hates _me and I _think_ I hate him too but... they said, I love Haymitch and I... I'm confused. I don't know real from not real and I don't know if how I think I feel is honest or if the feelings they said I possessed are real."

As Xyncisthe watched her debate and fought an internal struggle to find her reality in the jumbled mess, he decided to gently probe and change the subject. Having her talk about Haymitch, whether fondly or not, was making him uncomfortable. He was jealous. He was angry yet, he knew he had no right to feel that way. After all, he was not made to love anyone, least of all Effie Trinket, so how could he feel all those emotions? Were they even his feelings? Xyncisthe shook his head as he reminded himself that he was not the important person; never was and never will be. "Tell me your hopes and dreams. Talk to me about something other than Haymitch; he obviously distresses you."

He kept quiet as she told him of the Hell they put her through, the torture and misery, the pain and despair, and the helplessness and hopelessness. She told him of the things they did to sweet Peeta and Annie, Johanna and Enobaria, and how she was so sorry she could not help them. She regaled him with her childish fairytale- how she dreams to be whisked away by a prince charming or how she is rescued by a knight in shining armor to a land far far away. She told him how she planned to spend her days of retirement- she would leave the Capitol and live in the districts and care for a farm, she would grow her own crops and raise animals, or she would row the boat to the middle of the sea and catch fish. It was a simple and peaceful retirement, one she knows she would enjoy very much. And if she was truly lucky, which she is quite adamant she is not after having been imprisoned and broken, she would very much like a pair of children and a husband; a small family but a loving one.

While she opened her heart to him and allowed herself to be exposed and vulnerable, he did just as she hoped; he simply listened and rubbed her back soothingly. He did not whisper sweet nothings or empty comforting words, neither did he comment or judge her. He did not remark about how simplistic and foolish her ideas of retirement was, not about how pathetic and idealistic her dreams were, and especially not about her weakness or crying or the scars that robbed her beauty.

When she clung to him and his arms tightened around her, and the shackle lying gently between their bodies, she knew the protection and security his arms provided. What she felt however was an unspoken promise; his vow to be by her side as her sword and shield, her mysterious dark knight. Perhaps, he was fulfilling her dream by being her knight.

Effie allowed herself to snuggle into his warmth and smiled gratefully. If he truly is her knight, she could only hope he would also somehow end up being the prince to her lonely princess. After all, that person as they said had used and abandoned her, then what was the point of her waiting for a man never returning? Why pine for one who would never love you when another more willing prince will be whisking her to safety?

"But you know, I'm quite _sad _that I _forgot _about him and his name."

"Sometimes when the pain and trauma becomes too unbearable, your mind automatically shuts down about that person and your memories of them are locked away too. It's sort of like a defence mechanism," Xyncisthe explained to her and Effie could not help but feel as if he was sharing something very personal with her. Effie did not need to look at him to know he was speaking with his heart instead of from his usual cool, composed although albeit reckless and mischievous brain "Sometimes the people who matter a lot ends up being the ones who forget you; or they _ try _to forget you." Throughout the rest of the night, she felt protected in his embrace as he held her and the special moment they created between them was a space they hoped would never be destroyed.

* * *

The next night, Effie found herself opening her eyes weakly after she felt a light squeeze on her shoulder. She had barely slept since she had spent most of her time thinking of her partner. Turning around, she looked up at his hardened face and quickly the haze of sleepiness dissipated. She quickly raised from her lying position, patted her hair with her free hand and waited for him. His ears strained and his eyes roved before he knew his boot over the fire and snuffed it out completely. There were unnatural rustling and crunching, a strange silence stretched across the forest. Effie quickly pulled on his coat and nodded when he put his finger across his lips. "Careful," he breathed and they moved away from their midnight shelter.

Under the guise of the dark and a partially shaded moon, the pair prowled and the dried leaves crunching quietly beneath their feet. Her eyes were not helpful in the dark, she could barely see anything and often-times he had to tug on the shackle gently to steer her away from walking into a tree or tripping over a stray root. She marvelled how he seemed to be able to see quite easily in the dark. He was moving confidently in the darkness, his shackled hand holding hers and the other curled around the hilt of his cane. It was unlike how a blind man would handle the cane; Xyncisthe held the cane lightly and carelessly.

Effie pursued her lips as she noted his undesirable traits. Honestly, how could a noble be so lazy and careless? Xyncisthe had to be the most reckless and careless person she had ever known; the way he simply waved off her concerns about him, or the way he simply cared for his belongings were abysmal. Instead of properly buttoning his dress shirt, he had simply buttoned the bottom three and left the rest unbuttoned. His boots were badly tied and it actually looked loose on him despite them supposedly being well-fitting. However, out of all the horrors, his breeches were the worst! He had buttoned and zipped it like a gentleman, but he had left the belt hanging unbuckled and one of the legs was rolled up to his knee while he allowed the other leg to be rolled up to mid calf. Unless they were alone and a little more relaxed and calm, he was hardly behaving like a proper aristocrat. Even so, Effie knew she would not want him any other way. Despite his laid back and nonchalant persona, he was caring and tender, safe and secure, and powerful; and most importantly, she felt protected and she truly believed that as long as they remained shackled together, he would not allow any harm to befall her.

Effie allowed herself a small smile as she watched the platinum hair that seemed to be a tiny lighthouse in the darkness. As long as they remained together, nothing _would_ happen to her; _nothing_ could happen to her. However, the smile slipped as the feelings of guilt settled deep in her chest. She was a pathetic girl really; she was clinging onto the first person that made her feel safe when she should have long lost her trust and faith in people. What was equally disheartening was how selfish she was; how could she hope to be shackled to him forever? Surely, he also yearned for his own freedom and she was a dead weight by his side and an extra burden for him to look out for. He had to spread his protection over two people instead of one, and he had to gather twice as much food unless he planned on starving. "Xyn-"

"Stay close," Xyncisthe whispered and interrupted her as he crouched low and stalked stealthily between the trees and bushes and she followed him closely. Her eyes widened a little when she saw how his fingers changed their grip. No longer was the cane held loosely, it was stiff and ready in his hand as they continued to prowl in the dark forest. Effie was struggling to keep up while feigning her own stealth. A day spent with him and suddenly she felt like an apprentice instead of a of the forest; he taught her to sneak around and seek out water sources, listen for enemies, harmful and poisonous plants and many others. It felt like she was a tribute in the Arena except that she had a master with her. A crunching of leaves-

Without warning, he had unsheathed his cane and threw it like a spear. The glistening blade graced past her sharply and swiftly through the silent night, with its golden hilt glowing brightly. Effie's eyes followed the burning gold light as it sailed through the darkness. There was not a scream but she saw the once pristine blade coated with splatters of blood...but she was not terrified. They made their way towards the bloody sword quietly.

She was calm and she knew that the weapon had struck through the head of the enemy. However, what sent her quacking with fear was the cruel and dark smile her partner was sporting when he viciously pulled the sword out. "Try not to scream, alright?" he asked softly as he touched her cheek tenderly before he thrust the scabbard into her trembling hands. She looked into his eyes and nodded mutely. Those eyes, although cold and vicious, when they were directed solely on her; Effie thought they looked a lot softer and tender, earnest and genuine... and _honest_. "Anyone scares you or even dares to come close, hit them...but try to avoid hitting me. Now follow me."

Effie was not sure if that last part was a dry joke or a warning of sorts. If he was truly joking, Effie decided he would be the first she would hit considering he is actually scaring her. If he was warning, who knew what he would do to her if she hit him but she doubt he would punish her like they did. Seeing how vicious he is, he would probably run the sword through her. Then again, he had been nice and caring from the start so, he might not kill her and probably just accepted that she did it in the moment. Effie's hands curled tightly around the scabbard as she readied herself for a struggle that never seemed -

Effie realized she thought too soon. She moved and suddenly she felt splatters of blood raining on her and screams of agony filled the air. Sounds of bones being crushed, guns firing at will and bullets raining down on her, and ringing sound of swinging blades caused Effie to shut her eyes and hugged the scabbard as tightly to her as possible. It was mayhem surrounding her. She was afraid and rightly so. The entire thing was just like the dark days she spent underground. The screams were as strangled, pleading and agonizing. The slashes brought by the blade sounded and felt like the leather whips that struck her body repeatedly. Unable to take anymore mental torture, she twirled and swung the scabbard as forcefully as she could and she heard a sickening crack and an awful groan of pain.

"Gosh if I knew you were this capable, I wouldn't have protected you. I'd just have given you the scabbard to protect yourself while I took on the mobs from my side," Xyncisthe was chuckling good naturedly as he touched his right arm tenderly and his clothes washed with blood; she doubted their his, "This'll be a swelling bruise for a while. Good strike." Effie noticed that he did not seem to have any injuries except for the wound she gave him; he probably did not expect her to hit him. He flashed her a boyish grin before he walked away while tugging her along gently.

His pace was easy to keep up with and it allowed Effie sufficient time to fully notice the aftermath. Despite the moon being half hidden by the clouds, she could still make out the silhouettes and the sticky liquid that was splattered everywhere. Bodies were slashed with deep and long gashes and beheaded with some limbs lying far away from the bodies. Some of the skulls seemed crushed as if someone had forcefully stomped on them. Blood smeared across the clearing- turning the grass blades crimson, some blood were also sprayed onto nearby trees. All in all, it was a macabre scene and Effie felt ill. This was too barbaric, too savage and brutal; not at all the conduct of an aristocrat. What was more horrifying was the man leading her; he had smiled after he fought them off. He had grinned and he was unharmed despite the ratio being one to seven; he was a natural. A natural killer. She wondered if he had smiled while he was decapitating them. "Don't worry your pretty little mind," he spoke suddenly and Effie's head quickly met his tender look, "The sword will never turn against you; it'd rather be destroyed than hurt you. This sword has sworn never to hurt you; I can never hurt you."

That night she huddled in her corner as she peeked curiously at her partner. They had stopped by a river for them to clean the blood away and quench their thirst. Needless to say, their clothes were wet from washing and as if stripping was their midnight ritual; they did just that as soon as he found them a suitable clearing and built a strong fire.

"I'm sorry about that," she looked pointedly at the purple swell on his arm. Xyncisthe looked at the bruise, smiled easily and nodded. He applied healing salve on it, and gently rubbed it before he closed his eyes and allowed the night breeze to tend to it. As she watched him breathe deeply as if to avoid wincing at the terrible pain, she felt guilt bubbling in her chest. "Thank you."

When silence waned on, Effie was not sure she could handle it anymore yet she did not want to disturb his sleep. Then again, she needed to know and she needed to understand the cruel smile he spotted then. She wanted to know more about her knight. "You've killed before." It wasn't a question, it was a statement.

He turned startled, his eyes wide before his lips eased into an easy smile and his countenance relaxed. "We're all murderers," he explained with a cheerful grin as if it was a fact meant to be celebrated, "Everyone in Kausitus kills. Everyone from the Viktore line has killed. You know... It's like sort of an expectation? You've got to kill or at least be surrounded by death if you want to live in Kausitus..." Despite his cheery demeanour, Effie heard the bitterness and self loathing that laced those words.

"What do you mean? Like an assassin?"

"No, not really," he smiled thinly as he stared at the unwavering flames, "We're not paid to kill. We're... It's a test; if you're strong you pass half the test. The other part is with regards to how willing you are to abandon yourself and die. Passing the test once isn't the be all and end all; it never ends which is why, we Viktores are born from and bound to death and murder."

"Born from death and murder?"

"Aye, that is true," he nodded carefully as he stared into her blue eyes and Effie felt she was being probed, "When you meet the truth, you'll understand but I hope it won't send you running for the hills."

Effie didn't understand but she still reached out to touch his cheek tentatively. The bruise she gave him had swelled into a deep purple wound and she nearly felt sorry. He was not an enemy, he is a friend and an ally. He...is like her guardian and protector. "I promise," she vowed solemnly. She would not run away even if the truth of Xyncisthe Viktore is hideous because really, how can she? He had risked himself to protect her when he could simply sliced her hand off with his sword and go his own merry way. Instead, he stayed shackled to her, protected her and comforted her when her nightmares took her away. She owed him her acceptance at the very least for the things he had done for her.

"Remember your promise because the time for farewells draw near," he whispered as he cleaned his sword and sheathed it quietly and applied some healing salve on the glaring wound. As he stared deeply into the flames, Effie noted how his usually clear grey eyes were misty and cloudy. "When we part ways, remember this if you cannot remember anything- when someone lies, it's not always to hurt you; because sometimes the truth is dark and agonizing and it would break and kill you if you learn it too early." And then he closed his eyes and leaned back against the tree trunk and promptly fell into a deep relaxed sleep.

For once since her misadventure with him began, Effie watched the steady rise and fall of his chest. She winced when she glanced at the purple wound and reached to caress it gently. Despite his advice, she wondered about his past and the hidden truth. What could be so terrible that she would run away? What did he mean by the time for farewells? Would they meet a blacksmith soon and he would go his merry way while she goes hers? What kind of place is Kausitus and what sort of family are the Viktores?

Through the night Effie wondered and she came to a theory. If Viktore was supposed to sound like victory and by Xyncisthe's explanation that they were born from death and murder, could it be that the Viktores were the victors of the Hunger Games? Which also made sense of Kausitus which was pronounced as Cocyptus. After all, Cocyptus is a place in Hell where traitors of the country were punished and in a shrewd and cruel way, the victors are traitors to their district and people because the truth remained that they murdered their own to be crowned as victors. Effie released a startled gasp. Her theory about the Viktores and Kausitus tied nicely to his explanation; they were all expected to kill. If in fact she is right, it ultimately led Effie to the question, who is Xyncisthe Viktore? Who had a sinister victory in the Hunger Games?

As she mulled over her thoughts, Effie failed to notice how conscious and awake her partner was. He looked at her from the corner of his eye before he blew a soft slow sigh and stared at the moon. "The more she learns, the faster she joins the pieces, the sooner the farewells will come," he mumbled, "I can only hope I can stall long enough because it would be too painful for her if it came too early. I must distract her for the sake of their sanity."

* * *

Morning came and Effie felt herself gently nudged awake. Her blue eyes met twinkling grey eyes and a full dressed Xyncisthe Viktore. His dress shirt was opened from mid chest upwards, his breeches and his boots properly donned on while he held his jacket for her. His coat she realized was folded neatly in the corner and Effie wondered if he even had rest. Not long after, they began trudging through the forest again. Their wrists shackled and fingers intertwined as she carried the coat in her free hand while he leaned his cane carelessly on his left shoulder. Somehow, he made this whole adventure seem like a honeymoon hiking and Effie felt herself enjoying it. True, her predicament was bleak and horrifying to say the least, but that did not mean she could not appreciate his efforts on making it a little bit more bearable.

It had been a day or two at most since their sharing moment and they had grown a lot more honest with the other. They lowered their guards but even then, there are still lines they do not cross. For example, Xyncisthe will never ask her about her opinions of sex and her dark days, and Haymitch and she would not ask him about his past. They shared only what they felt comfortable with; they never pried and prod. They became so comfortable with the other that often-times Effie would willingly curl to sleep naked beside him with his laps as her pillow while he kept vigil and know for certain no harm would befall her. It was not the same kind of security she had shared with anyone before; never before could she strip naked in front of a man and not feel embarrassed or judged. The Capitol citizens especially the men were always judging her beauty, watching and leering at her, while the district people are always sneering and insulting her. Xyncisthe Viktore is the first man she knew who simply looked at her blankly and simply dismissed her nudity as nothing special.

Smiling and pushing the leaves and branches out of her way as carefully as possible, she kept up with the easy pace he set "Where are we?"

He looked at her and grinned. "Up ahead and we'll be on the boarder of District 2 within an hour or two; we'll find a blacksmith there."

For awhile they walked until she noticed how the trees were giving way to a small village and how Xyncisthe suddenly seemed to be walking too closely beside her. There were many empty stables, broken doors and windows, charred rooftops and silence. There was no one, nothing but the aftermath of chaos. She followed him quietly, careful to avoid the overturned things, glass shards and splinters that littered the road, and the small fires that still burnt in the corners. Her eyes travelled everywhere, hoping to see someone alive within the rubble before it settled on the unkempt platinum hair of her partner. Somehow, his hair seemed to be the only light in the dark, ghostly village. _A light at the end of the tunnel._

Effie nearly found herself bumping into the back of her partner who had stopped walking. She was about to chastised him for stopping without any notice when his voice shattered through the brittle silence. "When will you stop stalking?" Effie felt herself stiffened and her eyes looked wildly and warily at the mayhem that glared back at her. Someone had been stalking them from when? She did not even know they had a stalker. Was it a friendly presence? She hoped so but her partner seemed less optimistic. "Come out or I'll come after you." Effie heard the violence that laced his words and she shuddered involuntarily. She was not sure how she would react if one day that violence was unleashed her but for now, that violence was a blessing. It was a shrewd sense of protection and she welcomed its protective embrace.

A rustling came from her left and Effie immediately turned to look but she noticed how Xyncisthe's head remained facing forward as if the stalker was coming from the front instead of the left. "Ya look ta fine ta be from anywhere but the bloody Capitol." There was an accusative tone in that voice and Effie peered from over Xyncisthe's shoulder and saw an older man whose face was scarred. "What the fuck are ya doin' in the chaos ya created?"

"I'm looking for a blacksmith," Xyncisthe answered coolly before he raised his shackled wrist and allowed it to rattle, "I have no interest in scavenging in a ruined village." He sneered and Effie nearly wanted to smack his head. You simply do not sneer at someone especially when you need their help; it _is _common sense! Only a person who is rude, pompous and ill-mannered would, and someone like Xyncisthe Viktore who boast a very good lineage should not be doing that! Effie felt herself bristling at his bad conduct but immediately stiffened again when she felt Xyncisthe's cane brushed lightly against her hand. "Find me a blacksmith or I'll behead you." There was a tone of finality in his voice that Effie simply could not ignore. It was felt as if she too was given a choice and she glanced weakly at him. She was shocked at how serious he was; he would certainly behead the poor man!

"There ain't no more people here, ya know," the older man relented as he crossed his arms stubbornly and glared bravely at a bored looking Xyncisthe while his Adam's apple pushed weakly against the tip of the cane, "There ain't no more weapons too. Took em all away and left here to burn. Lucky for me, got my wifey out of here before they came. No mercy for em who was here then."

"Give me a loft of bread at the very least," Xyncisthe sighed as he lowered his cane and rested it lazily against his thigh, "And make it fast." The man scurried away, leaving Xyncisthe and Effie standing alone amongst the shambles. A few minutes ticked by and Effie began to worry herself despite the cool, composed and certainly lazy mask her partner was spotting. How he could even be disinterested when their lives hinged on a balance is beyond her! They could be ambushed, killed and tortured; and escaping them once was enough for her never to want to reacquaint with them again. She began to fidget and stare at him in hopes that her staring would make him uncomfortable but he merely ignored her. Insufferable scoundrel!

"What if he leaves us for dead?" Effie asked as panic lacing the undercurrents of her voice, "What if he doesn't come back? What if-"

"I'll hunt him and his family down," 'Scoundrel' answered as if it was the most obvious answer and then he added, "and take the bread he owes me." If his afterthought was supposed to lightened the atmosphere and put her more at ease, he was certainly wrong. Somehow, all his jokes fell flat and instead Effie quickly pulled her gaze away from him. He was not joking about hunting the man, he was as deadly serious as their predicament and Effie was not sure if she should feel safe or fear for her safety. She had learnt a long time ago that when a usually laid-back person becomes serious, no one's safety is assured; and who else but Haymitch Abernathy taught her that? When he became suspiciously sober serious during the Third Quarter Quell, Effie had enjoyed his efforts as mentor but her safety and health were compromised in the worst way possible. He promised that she would be safe as long as she stayed in the Capitol, how wrong-

"This is all I can spare," the older man had returned carrying a basket of two loaves of bread, "My wifey is with babe."

Effie nodded her thanks but before she could gush her thanks, Xyncisthe beat her to it. "You have my thanks," he thanked solemnly as he carried the basket and his cane in one hand, "Leave as soon as possible. Another storm is coming."

The man blinked before he nodded. "A storm just blew passed recently; it will no doubt be back." Without another word, the man whisked away and Xyncisthe pulled Effie along as they walked back into the forest. Something about that man's message left a bitter taste on her tongue; who was the Capitol after? It could not be her, could it? She was of no use to them anymore, considering that the rebels chose not to save her despite breaking her shackles. She watched the hardened, dark look on Xyncisthe's face and wondered. Could it then be him? If so, why? Perhaps, he was not being truthful about who he was and somehow that thought sent a painful throb to her heart.

"Who are _you_?" Effie yanked her hand and the shackle rattled but the man kept his back on her. She should have listened to her guts when they warned her about him. They had sworn to her that she had never met him but he had repeatedly told her that he was her colleague and perhaps the torture had altered her memories. It might be true that she had only kept a small resemblance of reality in herself but even so, she was sure that he had never existed. So why... Why did he insist on making her believe a lie? How long had he been feeding her the same lie? Since the start of their journey? In a sense, he was no better than them; both had fed her lies and tried to alter her grasp of reality and her thoughts and memories. She should hate him but...she couldn't not when he had been sacrificing and keeping her alive.

"I'm Xyncisthe Viktore." He said so quietly Effie nearly missed it. When he turned to regard her, she stumbled back a foot in shock. Sure she had noticed his facial features the night before, but now, up close she realized the startling similarities. Her dead colleague, the insufferable drunk and this man had faces that were nearly clones of each other. She swallowed and her free hand reached to caress the face lightly as if to convince herself he was real and not a living dead. The stubble tickled her hand and she nearly smiled until she saw those clear grey eyes.

She immediately withdrew her hand and nearly winced when she saw the flash of hurt in those stormy orbs. "You're not... He, Xyncisthe Viktore, doesn't exist," she whispered weakly, "I don't _remember _him."

He merely stared at her, adoration and guilt glistening in his eyes before he replied softly, "I am as _real_ as our predicament. Just because you didn't notice me before and therefore don't register me in your memories doesn't make me any less real."

She stared in utter disbelief and her head spun. Xyncisthe Viktore, her last hope to Haymitch's survival, vanished. She had hoped Xyncisthe Viktore would admit he was Haymitch Abernathy in disguise; they had to be. She did not believe in doppelgänger and both of them looked identical if only Xyncisthe allowed his hair and beard to grow. Perhaps if Xyncisthe carried a bottle of liquor now, he would have looked like the real thing. She would have laughed if she had concluded this just based on physical looks alone. The way he pulled the word sweetheart was much too alike, it was uncanny. "You're not Haymitch Abernathy." It sounded so accusative even to her ears. She had wanted to ask not accuse him of anything.

"Does it matter if I'm not him?" he challenged quietly, "What difference does it make if I am him?"

Effie saw a mixture of emotions swirling in the now cloudy grey eyes and she wondered. His questions made sense, what difference would it make if he was Haymitch? Did she not already acknowledged that she felt safe and secure in his arms and presence? Was it not enough? Panem help her, what more could Haymitch have offered in this situation? Effie trembled when she surrendered, and completely gave up fighting her decade old feelings. She was in love with Haymitch and his presence offered her everything a prince could ever offer a princess. Like it or not, she thoroughly believed he is her prince and had placed all her hopes and faith in him to save her. She let out a short bitter chuckle at her dream fairytale; she was a princess in distress and instead of her prince, a prince charming came. Funny how her situation ran parallel with Princess Fiona in Shrek but she was rescued by a prince charming instead of an...ogre. Oh well, Haymitch was like an ogre; all grumpy, rude and lonely but he was handsome. Of course having Haymitch instead of anyone would be wonderful because he represented love and more. Then again, what was the point of wishing for a dead man? "I suppose it's more comforting to be with someone you've shared a funny relationship with," Effie said quietly as she dropped her head and looked at the demoralizing scene ahead. She jerked as she quickly looked at him sheepishly and quickly added as if it would somehow save and minimize the damage done, "That's not to say your company is unpleasant. Please understand that I would very much prefer a more... familiar presence."

He was about to continue the conversation when he heard the crunching of boots and immediately reacted. He pulled her towards him roughly before throwing her beneath him as his free hand clumsily pulled and shoved the dead leaves over him. While they laid in silence, Xyncisthe's muscles were taut and tense as if anticipating for something and Effie had to control her trembling. Xyncisthe was the first and only man she had been so close to since they pulled her out of the cell and onto the march to district 2. He was also the first man to see her scars and nudity since then but he had not said anything; he had not commented. Would it be better if he did? Effie was sure she would not want to hear him say anything because it would be hurtful and derogatory. Then again, had he not been anything but friendly, approachable and pleasant throughout their time together? Surely, he not say all that but he had lied to her, or at least she had presumed he had. What would stop him from lying to her about her scars? Would he be like those men who would compliment and say she was still beautiful just to get a good fuck from her? No, she was too ugly to be ever called beautiful. Never again would anyone call her beautiful unless of course he was literally blind.

"I think the coast is clear," he whispered as he pushed off her and Effie nearly missed his warm breaths blown over her cheeks, "Come on."

He held his hand out to her like a gentleman and he pulled her up as soon as she placed her hand in his. Effie could not decide if she had preferred his professional, coldness or his light, teasing and amicable nature. His smiles were no longer cheerful and easy, instead they were tight and forceful. Instead of walking to match her pace, the shackle stretched to its limits and Effie had to jog to keep pace with him. His unpredictable light, teasing but friendly touches were now missing and Effie was starting to miss him. Why did she have to push him away when they were beginning to come closer?

That night Effie cried herself to sleep. Her tears rolled the sides of her face as she curled into an even tighter fetal position and tucked her face in. She will not allow him to see her crying.

* * *

"Who are you _really_?" Effie asked for the umpteenth time since they escaped. They had already discussed about his identity the day before or perhaps a few hours before, Effie was not sure but she was sure that she was far from satisfied. He was definitely not born or raised in the Capitol, and certainly did not contain a drop of aristocracy blood. He was too ruthless, too vicious...and too barbaric to be a well-cultured and well-mannered aristocrat. What made her even more certain that he was a fraud were his movements in the forest and their journey to Panem knows where. Sure, an aristocrat would have hunted or even learnt a thing or two about the forest but this Xyncisthe Viktore or whoever he is, moved with the ease, grace and power of a predator. He killed without remorse and hesitation, sometimes going as far as butchering the pursuers and he was way too knowledgeable about the forest, to the point of anticipating the weather with just his nose and warning her about the terrains. Effie was sure he had had a vast experience with the wilderness, and therefore ruled out the possibility that he could be an aristocrat man because an aristocrat only hunted in their private compounds, never in the vast wilderness. This person was almost...almost like a seasoned victor and the forest is his home.

He turned to look at her and sighed heavily while he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. Xyncisthe was unsure if he wanted to prolong the inevitable or just surrender and give up his darkest secret which would no doubt lead to his other secrets. He had been mulling over the thought that perhaps she deserved to know the identity of her partner, or so she called him, and he was being rude and selfish by denying her. Then again, was it not enough to be saved? Was it too much of a favour to asked of her? Could she not _just_ accept her fate as he once did and just move on? "I'll be whoever you want me to be," Xyncisthe decided he would just prolong it until they reached their destination. He had faced forward and resumed walking when he mumbled, "It doesn't matter anyway since my days are numbered." It was true; once he completed his mission, his reason for existing disappears and he would be gone. What reason did he have to live longer? His world would stop moving, stop spinning and start crumbling once she was safely delivered. It is just like any story; he lived, he did some stuff, he died so why did the knowledge of knowing he would soon cease to exist hurt him?

"I don't want you to be anyone you're not," Effie's words burst through his thought bubble and Xyncisthe nearly lurched forward when he stumbled over his own feet. Turning swiftly at her, he scowled. Effie's arms were crossed, her feet planted firmly on the ground and she jutted her chin out as if to show how determined she was. It was unfathomable for Effie that there exist a man who was willing to cast aside his true identity to be someone else. Of course Effie had done that for the earlier part of her life, but never once did she do it willingly. She had reluctantly, unwillingly and grudgingly took on a new identity as the Escort of District 12 and buried her real self underneath the frivolous dresses and thick make up. She knew she had never completely discarded her true self because every night when she removed each layer of disguise, she uncovered a part of her one by one until she greeted herself. That greeting lasted through the night, perhaps a few hours, but at least she remembered who she is before she buried it again to start a new big, big day. "Tell me _please_." Effie was not above begging and when she saw the flash of hurt in his grey eyes, Effie knew he felt the same as she did when she had to don on her fake identity.

"_Who are _you?" she breathed the question and both of them did not expect him to sink onto his knees in defeat and brought her down to hers as well, "_Tell me, Xyn._" Xyncisthe knew he had lost control of himself and the situation the moment his knees buckled. This dance or whatever dance he was having with her, he had lost. He could not for the life of him, sustain it any longer. His mind knew it was time while his body and heart had long acknowledged; it was time he surrendered and gave her the answer she so desired. There was no way he could prolong the inevitable, however hard and sly he tried, and should she hate him at least he could die knowing he had lived to his promise- he would protect her. Never mind that he could not protect her in the detention centre, at least now, he would protect her until she reached safety and regained the freedom Panem once robbed from her. It was truly alright if he died with her hatred, anger and despair because what else did he deserve? He had left her to fend for herself when he should have been there. He was not there when she needed him most or rather when she needed someone the most.

"I'm so... sweetheart, I couldn't come sooner," he choked as he hung his head in shame. There was absolutely no way in Panem was he ever going to look at her now. In fact, he had no right to look at her after everything he had done, or rather had not done. He was her tormentor, he was her executioner and he was her every nightmare; he had to be. Granted she was not as broken as him but the fact remained that she was no longer whole and it was all his fault. He had not done enough for her; nothing he did was ever enough. _They _died because of his ignorance. _They _died because of his weakness. _She _suffered because of his ignorance and weakness. Was there no way he could ever win fate's favour? "You can ask me anything and I'll answer but..." he trailed as he fisted his hands, "Never... no, never that. At least not yet." His voice sounded muffled and strangled and Xyncisthe was too distraught to care how pathetic he was in front of the person he vowed his utmost loyalty to. In fact, to be deadly honest, he lived only for her and when she returns beside the Mockingjay he shall and will disappear as if he had never existed. Xyncisthe swallowed the bile that threatened to rose as the promise came to the front of his mind; he had made a deal, a promise of sorts and he would live to uphold his side of the bargain. After all, in the grand scheme of things, no pact made with the Devil was ever truly free.

"Xyncisthe Viktore," Effie breathed his name as she stared hard into his grey eyes. She was not exactly sure she could describe his eyes; they were clear and devoid of emotions yet she felt sadness and guilt coming out in waves from them. She had knelt in front of him and held his face in her hands tenderly. Her own tears, purely on their own accord, came sliding off the sides of her face as her heart grieved for him. It seemed he was not just like Haymitch in appearance but also in spirit. How often had she spent nights taking care and cleaning him up while he was too inebriated to care about the world, and she had shed tears on his behalf. She knew he once cared so much he had cried but those tear ducts were so dried up that Effie doubt he could ever cry again even if he wanted to, and so, she always cried on his behalf under the cloak of shadows of course. No one needed to know, and no one shall ever know; it would her only secret that she brought to grave. The longer he remained silent, the more her tears came but she was not sobbing. On the contrary, her tears she suspected were those silent tears that he would have shed if he only could.

"Please don't cry," Xyncisthe murmured quietly as he tried to wipe her tears away only to have her smack his hand away, "Don't cry _for me_. I _don't _deserve your tears."

How often had Haymitch said those words? How often had he told her he was wasting her precious tears for a lost cause? Effie swallowed and smiled sadly at the blond man. Here was another victim of the Capitol and the Hunger Games. No matter if she did not truly know him, somehow, she had a strong suspicion that he was somehow heavily connected to the games or worse still, directly linked to Coriolanus Snow. This only hardened her resolve and her belief that all her years as a child and a young woman was spent in ignorance and blind admiration for a tyrant who was daring enough to massacre children every _single _year because no one had managed to stop him successfully. The ones in power had encouraged instead of revolt and it was the people at the bottom of the hierarchy who had the eyes to see the wrong in Snow's actions. Why was it always the weak and powerless who had the guts to revolt and those with the power who would rather unite and encourage? Effie trembled with rage, misery and guilt as she sought for forgiveness in herself for her crimes against humanity. For a decade she had reaped children, innocent young children who probably had a bright future had they had a chance to live, for the Games she once enjoyed watching as a child. It did not lessened the guilt the slightest despite her only consolation that she did see the error in her ways and thoughts since the 65th Hunger Games when young Finnick Odair emerged victorious and then used as a stud. She had since cried for every child who died and for those who became victors; it did not matter where they hailed from because really, did it matter?

"Effie-?"

"Let me live my fairy tale if only for a little while; be Haymitch Abernathy for me," Effie cut him and nearly frowned when his eyes widened as if he was caught by surprise. That split moment was when she knew and thoroughly believed in her convictions. His entire body had shivered before it tensed up as if he was startled. His jaws she saw tried working and his Adam's apple was bobbing furiously as if he was trying to conjure a string of words to no avail. If Effie managed to convince herself before he was not and could not be Haymitch, she had to retract such confidence and believed her initial judgement. She was right; all this time she had been right while he continuously tried to avert the question. Xyncisthe Viktore _is _Haymitch Abernathy. Now that that was cleared up, another question immediately sprung up, "_Why was he under disguise_?"

"No, no, I can't," he argued weakly as he looked pleadingly at her and interrupted her train of thoughts. "_Please _anyone but Haymitch Abernathy..." he choked, "I _cannot _be him."

His voice weak and strangled and it took everything in Effie to look away and still her hands. She would have ran her hand and moved his fringe out of his face. She would have caressed his face and even hugged him but not anymore because how could she? This man left her in Hell when he could have taken her with him; he just had to ask and she would have followed within a heartbeat. He was the reason she was now broken and haunted with nightmares when he could have prevented it if he had only brought her with him. He allowed them to tear her reality asunder and then weaved it back together with vicious truths and lies, and now did she really have a reality and a fantasy? She could not say confidently if she was now living a lie, a tale that was riddled with half truths, a reality that was bleak and hopeless or simply a fantasy that was more nightmare than dream because he destroyed it for her. He allowed them to take her apart. He _ruined _her. He _killed _her. It was all _his _fault! It _is _his fault she can never be the person she was. The words resounded in Effie's head as she, for the first time since she started on her journey to District 2, allowed her tears and mournful howls to echo through the forest.

"_I cannot because I don't want to_."

* * *

Please let me know what you think of this chapter. In all honesty, I think this is a mess and it's too fast but then again, my cousin (the proxy author) said it's okay so... Let me know what you think of it. If you would like to see a more detailed version of whatever part that happened so far in this story, drop me a comment and I will upload it in a separate story. Thanks.


	7. Chapter 6

Author's note: Alright, I will confess. I got carried away writing this because I was excited by a particular idea that I just had to type it out. I felt that I should somehow share this excitement with you and I uploaded this without proper proof-reading. Forgive my mistakes that managed to elude me at 3am.

P.s. This is a high tempo chapter (or I feel it is). Enjoy the ride and hang tight because I think you'll really need to in order to follow the sequence of events.

* * *

"You lying bastard! You despicable hateful scumbag!" The insults and accusation flew as Effie punched Xyncisthe who remained quiet throughout the session. His silence only made her angrier and a lot more hurt than before; his silence meant he agreed with everything she was saying and all the names she was calling him. Why he would not retaliate or defend himself, she could not understand but did she care? He was a liar, an imposter just like them. He was a weaver, a malicious weaver who twisted her reality and implanted fictitious characters in her already warped reality.

For a moment, a silver moment, Effie had hoped he would deny and explain but then what else could she hope he would spill? It seemed that he had said whatever he wanted to say and did not seem to have anything else to add. It had only been a few hours and the conversation replayed in her head as if they had been going at it the whole time. She could remember his every word and movement, his every sigh and expression and she could remember her own.

* * *

"You left me!" she screamed as she clenched her fists tightly. Her petite body shook from the magnitude of her rage and despair and when she looked at the passive and indifferent face of her ex-colleague, she wanted to scream louder than before. How dare he looked remorseless and passive? She was tortured intially only on the basis that she was the escort of district 12 and therefore should have had some form of information. Later, she was clueless as to why they continued torturing her. She was certain even in her delirious state that they were convinced that she had no part in the revolution.

"I did but I'm also the one taking you to safety," he replied her softly as he looked at her with soft grey eyes. Was it pity resonating in his grey eyes? If it was, Effie knew she would pummel him to death if she even had the strength.

"You said you won't hurt me!"

"And I didn't, did I?" he challenged as he looked at her as if he was innocent and she was insane to have accused him, "You haven't been seriously harmed while you're with me, have you?"

"Why do you make me promises you can't ever keep?"

"When I promised you that I'd be at the Reapings, I'm always there. I promised you my attendance to your silly Capitol parties-" he retorted as he reached to wipe her tears away.

"I'm not talking about those trivial promises!" Effie hissed and smacked his hands away as her eyes glowered dangerously at him, "Why do you bother? That boy didn't bother so why should you? You hate me more than he could ever hate me."

"I don't hate you; never had. I'm not the boy; I'm not _Gale Hawthrone_," Xyncisthe snorted as he twirled his cane restlessly. He hated when she talked about Haymitch or even compared him to Haymitch but it was despicable on so many levels when she compared him to a low-life, no-good, useless bum. "I rescued you because you're the Mockingjay's escort," he lied. Oh Panem, why was it so easy for him to lie to her? If there was an award in Panem that was given to elite compulsive liars, Xyncisthe knew he was sure to win the award every _single _time.

"That's all? For that reason alone, Coriolanus Snow would ensure I remain amongst the living." Effie's lips trembled for a whole different reason from before. This time, it was not from anger, resentment or bitterness but from an unfounded sadness.

"Drop it alright and stop trying to find a deeper meaning to this. I'm doing this just to unite the symbol of this revolution with her escort," Xyncisthe growled and Effie knew there was nothing more to be said, at least on his part. Why should he be angry? She _should _be the one who is angry; she had a right to be but he?

"Thank you Xyn- Haym-, no, no, I should thank Katniss."

"Yeah, you do that sweetheart." And the conversation ended and they never spoke to one another since then. They would not even look at the other in the eye and she would rather walk as far away from him than walk beside him where she once felt completely safe.

Effie glanced at the despicable lying scoundrel and noticed how his face remained impassive yet his grey eyes were clouded and stormy. No longer were those piercing grey eyes clear and non-judgemental, instead they were wary and tired. Perhaps, she might be wrong about him because did she really give him a chance to explain before she fired her accusation? Could it be that he was truly not Haymitch Abernathy and simply a crazed fan that transformed himself to look like Haymitch? It was possible in the Capitol after all but how was she going to talk to him when she was the one who declared cold war on him? No, she was right that Xyncisthe _is _Haymitch that much she believed ardently. That was truth; that was real.

Perhaps there was something else he or rather they were hiding and it could very well be the huge missing piece of the entire puzzle. Perhaps, was related more to Xyncisthe since she was sure she knew all there was to know about Haymitch; there was no secret about Haymitch that she did not quite know. The rebellion is an exception. Effie counted herself lucky when she put everything into perspective; Xyncisthe was a lot more willing and open, and whole lot nicer and more amicable. He would talk if she asked because that was what he said; but that was before she insulted and barrelled him with various nasty names. Perhaps she should start nicely...

"I know why you created Xyncisthe, Haymitch," Effie started and she continued staring at the platinum haired man who seemed adamant not to return her gaze, "You thought your deceased girlfriend would not have been able to accept that her Haymitch is capable of killing. In order to preserve her in your memories, you created. Xyn and dumped everything upsetting, by your girl's standard, on Xyn. That way you would always be her Haymitch."

_Real smooth and nice, Effie. _She chided herself as she watched the man slowly turned around to look at her. Those intense eyes glared at her as he started walking towards her and towered menacingly over her. His face twisted in the fiercest snarl she ever saw on a person and truthfully it did but when it was on his face, it seemed a whole lot less scary. When someone promises never to hurt you and has lived upholding that promise for the past two decades or so, and suddenly he looks deadly set to kill you, it doesn't feel like he would seriously follow through. After all, he was honorable enough to keep his promises and he would not lose that for anyone so really, was there a reason for Effie to fear him?

"You could be right, but so what? It doesn't change anything," he growled in her face and she saw the struggle in him. The way his eyes continued to flicker between cold fury and tenderness, she knew Haymitch was struggling with Xyncisthe for control but she really did not care which one she was talking to. As far as she was concerned, they were both the same. "For the record _Effie_," the man strained and Effie knew instinctively it was Xyncisthe who was talking to her instead of the brash Haymitch, "I'm Xyncisthe Viktore yet I'm not _just_ him. I'm also Haymitch Abernathy yet I'm also not only him. I'm both of them yet I'm not. Am I making sense? And your ability to easily differentiate us, that is a _very powerful _ability; keep it, remember it."

Effie nodded. She figured as much during their whole misadventure, especially so during their short cold war. Xyncisthe is gentle ruthless killer with the soft and kind voice when he talked to her. Haymitch, on the other hand, is still very much vulgar and rude when he talked but he did not have the blood lust tendency that Xyncisthe suffers from.

"I don't know who I am and you deserve to be cared for and respected by a normal person. I'm... Whatever and whoever I am, I don't deserve your affections. I don't have a heart to love. It's dead. Gone." he continued and Effie had to fight back the tears that threatened to spill.

"It's there, I know it. I feel it. If you don't care about me, if you don't love me, why-"

"Don't heap your feelings on me. I don't feel the same," he interrupted quietly as he stared at her with a strange longing and yearning in his eyes.

"Is it so terrible to be loved by me? You can be Haymitch Abernathy or Xyncisthe Viktore, or whoever you want because I know I'll still love you no matter. You can choose whichever sides you want to hide but don't hide them from me. Panem knows how many years I've had to hide myself but you, both sides of you, have seen the real me. Both sides saw me through my masks easily and you cared and respected me in your own way, and if that is not acceptance, I don't know what is," Effie confessed and she watched as the man in front of her struggled to react to her confession. It was truly watching a tug of war whereby two forces which were equally stubborn were fighting for control. As the lights in the grey eyes twinkled and flashed, Effie waited patiently for the struggle to mellow down a little before she continued her confession, "I think... The day you forgive yourself is the day you'll learn to mend your broken heart and melt the iceberg you've sealed the pieces of your heart in."

"Know what I think? You're still the annoying woman and I'm starting to regret saving you. You're a burden who talks too much and thinks she knows me better than I know myself. You force your feelings on me, you expect me to feel them and reciprocate. You are just like them; you want to bend me to your will, you want to control and use me. You..." he huffed to catch his breath before he continued his onslaught, "I hate you most because you're worse than them; I rescue you from your Hell and you repay me by prying into my life as if it's your right and duty. So two words: fuck off."

Throughout his tirade, she remained quiet. Each word a slash and stab to her heart, and she could hear it breaking. She could feel it shattering. She thought he would be glad to know that someone was willing to accept him as who he was and he did not have to hide, but boy, she was wrong. She breathed deeply and fixed a dazzling happy smile that would have been perfect if not for the corners of her lips that were trembling. She would not cry just because someone refuses her help. She would not break because someone tore her heart, threw its pieces back and threw her out of his life."I'm sorry for invading your privacy, it's a misconduct on my part. I thank you for being honest in your opinion of me, and I assure you I will never cross the line again."

The silence that followed was awkward in one word but that would be an understatement. Both remained quiet, fidgeting a little as they tried to ease the awkwardness. Kicking the soil and rocks near him, Haymitch heaved a heavy sigh before he glanced at his annoying ex-colleague. "Beyond here would be an easy path to District 12 and then we would be in District 13," Haymitch explained as he pointed in the distance where the Alps that protected District 2 peeked in the horizon and crouched at the base of a huge nearby tree, "Let me just put Xyncisthe Viktore to rest; he has completed his mission. I don't have to be a victor anymore. I have no need for a monster."

Before she knew it, she slapped him hard across his face. Tears of rage and hurt slid down her face and her blue eyes burnt with a brightly with unquenched fury. "How dare you," she hissed as she glared darkly at him, her eyes narrowed to slits and her lips curled into a snarl, "How dare you! You can hate me, you can hurt me, you can discard me. Hell Haymitch! You can even kill me; but I won't let you kill him! I won't be like them who chooses to accept parts of you and denounce the rest! I won't let you do this to yourself! You mean so much to me as much as he means to me! If it's not the whole, I rather you die than live with half a soul. You don't deserve this after all the things they have brought onto you."

How strange it was that this man who struggles with an identity crisis could behave in two different ways in the same situation. If Xyncisthe was in the driver seat, he would have gathered her, comforted and soothed her but not Haymitch."Grow up, Trinket!" Haymitch roared as his voice echoed through the forest, "He's not yours! He's a part of me and I can do whatever the damn Hell I _fucking _like! Stop telling me wh-"

"You bloody despicable, lying, detestable, heinous, damnable bastard!" Effie snarled as she glared at him, "You-"

"Hold your breath and follow me." Effie stared at him when he coldly commanded her. He meant it and Effie knew without a doubt that if she continued, he would silence her even if it meant her death. He was serious and the primal hunger in his eyes that was accompanied with blood lust were quickly rising in the grey eyes. Xyncisthe was back. Effie, despite herself, allowed a tiny smile to curl onto her lips.

* * *

As soon as he walked over the stray root, his legs froze in mid-step and his hand immediately swung the cane. Blood spilled across his eyes as he snatched Effie close to him while he fended off the onslaught. Listening to the irregular crunching of leaves and twigs, and the cries of agony that seemed to scream much closer to his ears than he was comfortable with, his heart froze and a terrible ringing sound reverberate in his mind. Shaking his head as if it could somehow quieten the alarm, he struggled to keep her protected.

Fear, for once, gripped his soul and seemed to drown it in its helplessness. There was no winning the situation, there was no surviving the endless supply of enemies. There were simply too many and having only his weaker hand as the only mobile limb, the ambush was truly too overwhelming even for Xyncisthe Viktore. As the tussle went on, he continued to lose composure and his stability, and fear continued to continued to gnaw bigger and bigger parts of his soul. _Is this truly fear? Am I... Have I lost? _He tried to convince himself otherwise; he had to convince himself otherwise if he wanted Effie protected. He had to and he would even lie to himself if he meant he would be a little bit more convinced. For after all, if he lost; it meant that he was not the perfect weapon.

The bile rose in his throat, his muscles straining and his feet wobbling; they could no longer support his weight completely. Sweat-drenched hair stuck onto his face and neck as his blood drenched shirt was plastered onto his flushed body like a second skin. His tight hold on Effie began to slacken considerably as he leaned his head gingerly on her shoulder and he panted heavily. _This is my limit._

Unable to force his body to respond anymore, he could not evade the bullets and blades that were aimed at him despite sensing them. Bullets pierced through his limbs and he fell forward. The blades stabbed his shoulders and back as darkness and exhaustion finally captured him. He did not even have the tiny bit of energy to glance a look of concern at her before his body fell onto the floor mangled and spent.

* * *

"Truly impressive, Viktore," someone sneered as Xyncisthe groaned and blinked the hazy darkness away, "I never had expected half of my soldiers to fall before you fell; how does it feel to kill a quarter of a hundred of soldiers with only an arm?"

Shaking his head, Xyncisthe nearly cursed aloud when his neck muscles whined. Stiff, pain and exhaustion... When his hand refused to come forward despite his orders, he looked weakly over his shoulder and saw his wrists bound together behind him in a new shackle that seemed a whole lot stronger than the one that shackled him to Effie. Then again, the bind did not actually mean much to him at the present time. After all, he was too drained and weakened that he doubt he would have been able to do much even if they had not bound his wrists. Struggling to stand, his body toppled over and he fell face first. Stretching his neck in the most painful way, he nearly surrendered when he saw that his ankles were also bound together. Were they that fearful of him?

Gritting his teeth, he commanded his body not to lose consciousness again. It was already difficult enough to find his way out of the welcoming darkness, there was no way he was going for a second trip. Glancing as far as he could see, his body nearly jolted in shock when it finally dawned on him that Effie was not shackled to him. _Where_? Turning his head whichever way in an attempt to seek her, his eyes burnt with hatred as he glared at the sneering man as if to demand an answer.

"Looking for her?" that peacekeeper sneered as he beckoned for his underlings to drag Effie forward. Her situation made him snarl and it only made the peacekeeper to smile gleefully. Her wrists were bound behind her back just like him, a gun nozzle pressed precariously on her temple as if to warn him that any movement from him would result in the pull of the trigger. As if the taunting was not enough, a blade was pressed lightly on her throat such that any swallowing of saliva on her part would result in the blade slitting her throat. _Damn it_.

"What do you want?" Xyncisthe growled as he resigned to his fate. Even if he was fit and strong, he would still be as helpless simply because of her situation. Any action he took meant only one thing- her life would be more compromised that it already was. They had tortured her soul, and he could only hope they would not take her soul. It was the least he could do for her.

"Who do you belong to?" the cocky peacekeeper grin sadistically and Xyncisthe felt his blood boil with rage. This was not part of any of the calculations he made; Effie was not supposed to learn of the truth this way. Oh sweet Panem, please let this be a nightmare or at the very least let Effie be unconscious. He spied her, his eyes begging her to forgive him but not only were her blue eyes frosty, they would not even deign him a look. Oh Panem, sweet Panem.

"Certainly not you," Xyncisthe snarled but his eyes were still pleading and hoping for her to spare him a glance. Even if she were burn him with a furious glare or a stare as cold as ice, as long as she would acknowledge his pleas, that would be merciful enough. Oh Effie, sweetheart, _don't_.

"Don't! No!" Xyncisthe heard himself roar in indignation and mortification. Fear, helplessness and hopelessness laced the undercurrents of his roar as the sneering peacekeeper snatched the white rose that was tossed and stuck deep in his pocket. Sure, the stalk of the rose was bend in the weirdest angles and the flower was crushed but the petals were still very much pure and pristine. If there was anything the petals still represented; it was Xyncisthe Viktore's undiluted and unshakeable loyalty and honour. _Loyalty to _Snow. Disbelief finally graced the impassive face of the beauty as she slowly, _agonizingly slowly_, turned to look at him. Frosty blue eyes slowly burnt with undisguised hatred and anger before an even more painful emotion consumed the hatred- betrayal, _complete betrayal_. She did not have to utter a sound and Xyncisthe knew the question that lied trapped between her dried lips: _why_?

When her first tear escaped, Xyncisthe turned away and howled. Finally, for the first time since his birth, Xyncisthe felt crushing despair and complete surrender. Not only has he lost the fight and title as the perfect weapon, he had lost the only person who acknowledged and needed him, and the trust of the only two people who mattered to him. For once in his life, Xyncisthe felt absolute defeat and he felt worse than a loser. He was truly...scum. Scoundrel. _Worthless_. As his cheeks became wetter, he cared for nothing anymore; it could be rain or his own tears. It did not matter because nothing could change it anymore; it was over. _ Because really, what's done is done! _His words echoed mockingly at him, just as how he had mocked Snow a long time ago. At which point had he taken to be the more arrogant one and thought to have had the last laugh? How pitiful was it that Snow was now most likely laughing at him?

"Tell me, Viktore, to whom do you belong to?" Sneering peacekeeper. "Look at her, tell her, break her." He nudged Xyncisthe's chin up and grinned widely when he saw the crying face. How great was the feeling to know that you managed to break a hardened warrior who is known to have no heart? How great the accomplishment to know that you managed the impossible!

There was no point in denying; no point in lying. _Haven't he lied enough_? "Coriolanus Snow," Xyncisthe croaked and the heart he thought did not exist, completely broke when he saw her demeanour. She was completely broken; worse than when he had been first shackled to her. How absolutely hurting was it to find out that your saviour who comes at your time of peril, your knight in shinning armour who promises you protection, your hero who saved and healed you from the nightmares that bring you Hell was an agent to the man who brought Hell onto you initially? This had to be the greatest betrayal anyone could have the misfortune of having. "I belong to Coriolanus Snow," Xyncisthe forced each word out of his trembling lips as if each word was a heavy weight that could only be spat out, "I...am honour bound to him. My loyalty is to him."

"Tell her how it came to be."

"No..." Xyncisthe resisted weakly, "I won't..." There was close to no more resistance from him. If perhaps they ordered him to die, he would certainly commit seppuku. After all, there was absolutely nothing left to him but his stupid honour. He was not worthy of trust, not worthy of anything and he was certainly not as powerful as they believed him to be. What more is there to his being? Nothing. Flat. Empty. Nothing.

"Tell he-"

"There's no need for that," Effie interrupted as she gulped her saliva, her voice trembling and so was her lips and body, "There's no need for that, Romulus Thread. If today was meant to break me completely, you have succeeded; congratulations. This... This betrayal is..." She sniffed and hung her head as her tears rained upon the dead soil. Nobody needed her to continue that line for everyone, for once, agreed- this betrayal is too despicable to be described by mere words.

"Leave her be," Romulus ordered his underlings and they promptly broke her binds and shoved her away, "She's no use to us now that we've got Viktore. Viktore, such a prized asset."

As Effie felt hard onto the soil, she did not bother to move and simply lied limp on the dirty ground. The hurt continued to ride through her body as she lied there seeing yet not seeing anything. How could Xyncisthe do that? How could he _lie _to her? Was there even more _lies _he had been spewing? Was he also twisting her reality? Oh Panem, sweet, _sweet _Panem. What is the actual truth? How pathetic that she actually believed he was her saviour, her beacon of hope in a world filled with brutality, cruelty and malice. _Why_?

As she lied there no longer aware of the world spinning around her, Xyncisthe spared her one last look that begged and plead for forgiveness. They left her lying there while they dragged a despair-consumed Xyncisthe onto the hovercraft and back to their Headquarters. Snow's most powerful weapon was finally returning to his birth place. _I'm so sorry, please forgive me._

* * *

"Viktore," Snow breathed into the grief-stricken Viktore, "You've _returned_." As he caressed the once cold and arrogant face tenderly, Snow could not help but smile wistfully. How many times had Viktore been arrogant and cold, aloof and distant and now, he was nothing more than a distraught man. Strange how even the most heartless of people could still feel despair. Perhaps, the one he should would be Effie Trinket; the woman had weakened Viktore by giving him a heart. "Oh Euphemia Trinket, you're such a golden girl," Snow chuckled lightly as he walked away from the man who was propped up by two peacekeepers, "After all everything, you're still a servant to the Capitol. Perhaps, _you _are most loyal, aren't you Ms Trinket?"

"President, we have received news," Franck Colossus reported as he strode in uninvited, "They are planning to attack District 2." Franck cast a subtle glance at the once handsome cruel sadist and he nearly felt sorry for Viktore. How shameful was it to know that you were once feared and revered by your enemies and now you earned nothing but their disgust and pity? How pitiful was it that your whole life was destroyed in a single moment because of a truth you simply cannot allow a woman to know? "Effie Trinket was spotted in the welcoming arms of Finnick Odair and Johanna. She _is _with the rebellion."

"Is that so? Connect me to them in two days, I have a delightful present for them." Snow walked towards Viktore, cupped his right cheek and smiled pitifully, "You'll see her soon, don't worry. It'll be such a beautiful reunion, won't it?" Chuckling, he dismissed everyone and Franck led the peacekeepers into an underground lab.

* * *

It had been hours since Viktore was wrapped in a straitjacket, his wrists and ankles shackled and a tight and secure bottom half mask was plastered onto his face. They lowered a defeated Viktore into a tube filled with lime green liquid and as soon as they completely submerged him, the cover closed and numerous wires of various colours stabbed into his body in specific places- mainly the vital points.

As the poison continued their swift motion, a gurgling sound echoed through the glass walls and vicious thrashings occurred. The wires that pierced into the body remained strong and relentless despite it all. Various computers that were connected to the tube were blinking rapidly, colours and lights continued flashing as the man in the tube continues his struggle.

"At this rate, he'll die sir," a scientist reported as he recorded the increasing fluctuations of brain waves and heart rate, "The body cannot withstand the onslaught sir. It is _too much _venom in the short span, sir."

Snow narrowed his eyes as he watched from a higher platform. Xyncisthe Viktore or rather, Haymitch Abernathy is indeed a man who never failed to surprise him. So much mystery surrounding the most roguish and despicable person. Haymitch surprised him when the boy won the second quarter quell through sheer cunningness and intellect and now his alter ego, Xyncisthe Viktore, shocked him with the depth of viciousness and raw cruelty. "He won't die," Snow smiled as he turned to leave, "The boy would rather die than submit but his alter ego would not even do either; it will fight...and it will survive." _Haymitch or would you rather Xyncisthe? If I knew you'd be such a powerful weapon, I would have willingly helped you hone those instincts and sharpen your sword. I will brand you, my darling weapon._

* * *

He screamed and screamed his throat hoarse as he fell into the abyss. Arms flailing uselessly as his legs kicked the emptiness as if his futile actions were helpful in his quest to resurface. He was falling, faster and faster and there was nothing he could do. The fall seemed worse than any plunge he had taken since it seemed to be an endless, bottomless pit hole. _Someone save me._

Suddenly, everything came to an abrupt standstill. He landed and time seemed to freeze as well. Squinting in the darkness, a twinkling light that burnt as brightly as the blazing Venus that peeked through the clouds sometimes. Quickly, he sprinted towards that beacon of hope and nearly heaved a sigh of relief that it was not like those fake beacons that seemed to always continuously move away. Instead of always maintaining its distance, this beacon remained where it was and only grew larger in size when the man came closer and closer to it. Stretching a hand to touch it, he stumbled forward and suddenly the scenery changed from endless darkness to a bright room that was filled with mirrors of various shapes and sizes.

Each mirror was reflecting a scene that felt familiar but did not look at all familiar. The scenes resonated with his heart; he _knows _the experiences were real but for the life of him, he could not remember having experienced them. Curious, he reached out to touch the glass gently as if he was afraid that if he touched it too carelessly it would shatter into a million pieces and create a repercussion that was too significant.

Inside the mirror was a man who looked like him; blond hair with grey eyes but that was as far as similarities went. Instead of his shaggy unkempt dirty blond hair, the man in the mirror had short dark blond hair that was styled in a pseudo Mohawk. Where he was standing still, the man in the mirror was sitting in a white sterile room that was impossibly pristine with numerous wires attached onto his torso. Each wire was carrying a dark blue liquid and a computer was showing many readings- heart rate, brain waves, blood pressure and respiration. Suddenly, the readings spiked and the man snarled in agony as he trashed in his seat but he would not pull the wires out. He continued hissing and growling as he twisted in his seat while the dark liquid was still being pumped into his body. What seemed like a few minutes of excruciating pain, another man appeared. He wore black rimmed spectacles and looked every inch a doctor. "We are done for today," the doctor said as he pulled the wires out roughly and switched off the computer without even casting a concern glance backwards, "I still don't get why you need to do this."

"I don't want him to eclipse my memories," the blond man answered tersely yet tiredly as he ran his hands gingerly across his injured and scarred torso, "These are _my _memories and pain."

"Funny how pain can feel pain," the doctor remarked offhandedly as he packed his things and was about to exit, "You are after all _born from pain_."

When the doctor left, the man in the mirror turned as if he was truly staring at the intruder and sighed, "I am his sword and shield-"

"Do you enjoy spying into the hearts and memories of others, Haymitch?" The man turned away from the mirror and nearly jumped a foot into the air when his eyes fell onto the speaker. The speaker looked exactly like the man in the mirror, not a year older or younger, nor did he look friendlier or meaner. The speaker walked closer and as he passed by the mirrors, they shattered and somehow the white room was shrinking.

"Who are _you_?" Haymitch forced out as he tilted his head to the side to survey the well-dressed man, "You look a lot like me but you're not my brother. You're not Dominique; who _are _you?"

"Have you forgotten me? Has all the liquor erased my existence from your memories?" the speaker closed the gap between them and cup Haymitch's right cheek. Strangely, Haymitch did not feel the usual disgust when others touched him; he actually relished in that touch and leaned in. It felt...intimate. Personal. "Have you forgotten the despair and hatred? Have you _forgiven _them?"

Suddenly flashes of the bloody district square appeared before Haymitch and a strangled cry choked in his throat. It was raining, it was quiet and it was surreal. Everyone was there but no one seemed to grieving or mourning; perhaps the rain was crying on their behalf. A woman was tied to the post, her bare back faced the people who were looking on impassively. Ugly, red, long and deep slashes drew ugly across her back as her body shook with unrestrained cries of agony and her legs wobbled in their attempt to heave the body straight up. Her wrists and ankles had deep red abrasions where the chains had bitten into her skin when she struggled under the onslaught of whip slashes. Amongst her body _art_ was the word, "Rebel."

"Ma..."

A boy was hanging from a pole by his shackled wrists. His left eye socket was bleeding where they gorged the eyeball out and threw it onto the ground just beneath his feet. His right eye seemed to have an endless supply of tears as the tears continued sliding off the side of his face. His once handsome and angelic face was disfigured and skinned off on some parts. Pain and fear had the boy humiliated further as he urinated onto his own stolen eyeball. His legs were bound together, knee downwards, and his thin body was showed for all to see. Branded across his stomach were the words, "Crime."

"Dom..."

A young woman was stripped naked. Her once glorious long hair was ruthlessly pulled out, leaving ugly bald patches. Her once beautiful body was now a result of heavy beatings and terrifying whip slashes. On her back was the word, "Judgement." Out of the three bodies, perhaps the young woman had suffered the least and had the least disfigurement but that did not lessen the pain or humiliation.

"Mira..."

Haymitch stumbled forward and leaned heavily onto his lookalike for support. He was no longer sure his legs could support his weight as he relived the moment all shreds of his innocence was ripped away. As he hanged his head in shame and despair on the shoulder of his lookalike, he cried softly and begged for forgiveness to the deceased.

"There is only one bullet, choose who you'd like to give a merciful killing to, my dear Victor of the Second Quarter Quell," Snow ordered as a peacekeeper thrust a gun into the hand of a young frantic Haymitch Abernathy, "Who would you like to see off personally and we will send off the other two." Holding the gun shakily in his hands, he shut his eyes and cried hard and pressed the trigger. It was then, always the same moment, that Haymitch collapsed and the darkness took him away.

"Such despair, have you forgiven them?" his lookalike whispered as he combed Haymitch's hair soothingly while he other hand curled possessively around Haymitch's waist, "Can you forgive them?"

"No, no," Haymitch uttered as he raised his head to look into the very familiar grey eyes, "Not until I get my revenge." As they remained quiet in their embrace, Haymitch continued, "And you were born from my hatred, despair and loneliness to carry out my revenge. You are my sword and shield; you will be the sword I use to protect those who matter to me."

"_Yes_, you remember me, Mira's Haymitch Abernathy," Xyncisthe smiled darkly as he disengaged from the embrace and sneered, "Yes, I am your sword and shield. I am everything Mira would not want you to be. I am everything Mira would never accept and acknowledge you to be. Say my name, _Haymitch_."

"Griever, Fenrir, Sinner, Murderer," Haymitch answered easily as Xyncisthe stood up from his kneeling position, "Xyncisthe Viktore." As the two men faced each other, the silence between them continued to stretch. Neither knew what to say to the other whom they had sort of loathed since birth. So much had transpired during their two decades war; so much blood, despair and loneliness had been shared between them yet their burning fury towards each other did not quell the least over the years. If anything, it had continued to burn brighter and brighter as one watched from just beneath the surface while the other operated.

Neither of them moved an inch until Haymitch stretched his hand and scoffed, "If I could live with only half of me, I would forget you completely."

Xyncisthe blinked before his cruel smile curled into a gentle friendly smile. "I would never kill you even if I could live with only half; I would sooner die than live without you."

"Bastard," Haymitch scowled as he folded his arms across his chest stubbornly, "Always trying to one-up me."

For over two decades, Xyncisthe had fought for control over the body so that Haymitch would remember that there was a side that he should remember. For over two decades, Xyncisthe had to watch through the eyes and the only times he could see Haymitch was the rare moments when Haymitch would pass by a mirror. For two decades, he sat alone in the abyss waiting for Haymitch to summon him. Now that the hand he had always been waiting for has finally broke through the abyss of loneliness and the man himself had entered his cruel darkness, Xyncisthe did the only thing he could- he grasp onto the hand and smiled serenely for the first time since his birth. "Haymitch, I've been _waiting_," Xyncisthe whispered as his body slowly faded into tiny dazzling lights, "For so long I've waited for you to come back for me."

"I... You came when I called you to save Effie," Haymitch snorted, "If that wasn't coming back for you, I don't know what is."

"Yeah well, you called and I answered but we know that isn't what I mean. I waited so _so _long for you to accept me again," Xyncisthe smiled wistfully and for once Haymitch realized that his alter ego was perhaps not all darkness, cruelty and negativity. Perhaps, his created alter ego, his Hyde was capable of warmth and goodness, and honour was not his only virtue. If only he was not blinded, could he have perhaps reacquainted with this side of him and maybe, just maybe Effie would be safe with him in 13 instead of suffering in the Capitol?

"Worry not for the probable past; it has already happened, let it rest where it should be," Xyncisthe caressed Haymitch's face, "Effie... She's special, isn't she?"

"She's annoying and noisy. She prattles too much and babbles inanely about nonsense," Haymitch scowled as his alter ego chuckled softly, "But yeah... she's special."

"I love her," Xyncisthe admitted as he dissolved completely into tiny freckles of white light, "but I still don't understand love; so you've got to live with her and tell me. Treasure, cherish and _love_ her, Haymitch." Haymitch scoffed but otherwise he did not comment as he watched the light burnt brightly before it burst and died. "What do we do about Snow and the rebellion?" Xyncisthe's voice echoed in the abyss.

Patting his chest lightly as if Xyncisthe was now living in his heart instead of outside of his being, he whistled, "This will need some getting used to." Without realizing, Haymitch smiled darkly. It was the same feral grin that Xyncisthe usually spotted when he was feeling a little too _merciful_. "What we've always done; we dance to our own tune. Guide my knife, Xyn. Guide me through the red haze of madness."

* * *

"Rebels stand down; it is in your best interest," Snow commanded as he appeared on the big screen and the rebels frowned, "Surrender now."

"We won't. What do you have in your arsenal for you to be confident that we will lose?" Coin challenged and Snow's eyes twinkled with undisguised cruel humour.

Beckoning to the off screen, a figure walked in and as it grew larger in the screen, the victors had to silence the gasp that threatened to escape their throat. Shoulder length dark blond hair, piercing clear grey eyes and an impassive face. The shirt was unbuttoned and tattooed just beneath the left ribs were the words: _Honour bound, I am Snow's _and around the waistband, just beneath the navel were the words: _One who kills victors; I am Xyncisthe Viktore the Fenrir._

"Say hello to the ones who have betrayed you," Snow whispered to Xyncisthe's ear as his eyes glimmered with a malicious twinkle, "Tell them exactly what you feel in _here_." As he said the last few words, he patted on the area where a heart should be beating but metaphorically speaking, that organ had long ceased to exist.

Finnick glared at Snow but when he looked at Xyncisthe, he searched for a shred of familiar presence. Somehow, every time he saw Xyncisthe, a predatory instinct and hunger rose in his body and the victor in him would respond. It was as if all the victors were connected, and Xyncisthe is the centre of it all. It was as if his presence would sing and summoned them all. What was it that Haymitch used to tell him a long time ago when he was crowned victor? _The blood will sing to the blood_. Ten years later and Finnick wondered if perhaps the one who advised him was indeed Xyncisthe instead of Haymitch. _You've got to wake up!_

"Where is Effie Trinket?" Xyncisthe asked quietly, his face impassive and his voice cold but tender, "Let me see her."

"She's not fit for visitors-"

"You see, my _darling _Xyncisthe, they have kept your most precious person away. How _cruel _is it not?" Snow whispered as the venom laced his voice and Xyncisthe in turn seemed to narrow his eyes to slits, "All this while, you've been fighting alongside the _wrong _side."

"No! Don't listen to him! Haymitch! Xyncisthe!" Lyme roared as she slammed her fist onto the table as if the sound could somehow overcome Snow's orders, "_Listen to me_! Effie is _safe_! You rescued her, don't you _remember_?"

When Xyncisthe's fingers began flexing and his tight lipped mouth stretched steadily into a feral grin, everyone began tensing. This is the most dangerous Fenrir. When Xyncisthe begins to move deliberately and unpredictably, he becomes a loose cannon with no shred of humanity or virtue- he becomes extremely hungry and narrow-minded: he hunts, he tortures and he kills at leisure. "Lies," Xyncisthe sneered much to the horror of everyone involved; it certainly was not clear who he was sneering to, "_All lies... Everyone lies._"

As his chillingly evil and stormy dark eyes twinkled maliciously, he locked gazes with Gale Hawthrone who was struggling to keep himself from barfing. They stared for a long moment during which no one seemed to want to interrupt. Evil sneered in the pretentious brave face and for the first time since the rescue mission, Gale felt cold, raw fear. If anyone told him fear was truly scarier than death, Gale would certainly subscribe to that belief. "_You _wanted to meet me so _so _badly didn't you, boy?" Xyncisthe fleered darkly and mirthlessly as his eyes continued their intense glower, "_I _am here now and I invite you to _dine _with me beneath the moonless sky. _I'll be waiting_, or I could _always_ come for you. Would you like that instead, Gale Hawthrone?"

The way Xyncisthe spat Gale's name was a cruel reminder to everyone on the revolutionists side- a reminder of the crime they committed against Haymitch Abernathy. Indeed, it was truly the crime of one person but it was a team effort and didn't the good guys love the quote, "One for all, all for one"?

"You _simply _couldn't... You _needed _to meet the one the victors call Fenrir," Xyncisthe continued as his voice turned an octave lower and it nearly sounded akin to a beastly growl, "So you decided not to return with the strongest shackle, hmm?"

"Gale! Apologize to him before-"

In a swift blur moment, Xyncisthe spun on his heel and snatched the nearest peacekeeper by grabbing on the shoulders and sinking his teeth into the area where the neck ended and the shoulder began. In his vicious rage, the unmistakeable contemptuous smile stretched menacingly and Xyncisthe looked every inch a terrifying mad man. He twisted and tore all the limbs of the unfortunate victim, joint by joint. As Romulus Thread howled in agony and begged for mercy, Xyncisthe grinned at the rebels and swiped out a knife from his pocket. With swift and accurate slashes, he sliced the ears away and continued slashing the face such that the once tan skin was now replaced with crimson. Xyncisthe smiled gently as he wiped the blood stained knife on his sleeves before he walked around his victim like a vulture would circle a carcass. For a naïve moment, everyone who was watching thought Xyncisthe would land the killing blow and put the poor man out of his misery until Xyncisthe showed exactly why he was creative and one of the most feared victors.

He dug the knife deeply between the collar bones of Romulus before dragging it roughly straight across the chest to the abdomen and down to the pelvis. Sticking a hand into the open body, Xyncisthe pulled and unveiled the intestines before he let it lie partially out and in the body while he continued ripping out the internal organs. As more and more people evacuated since their stomach could not stomach the gore, Xyncisthe nearly looked as if he was frowning in disappointment and hurt at the lost of audience. "Such a _waste_," Xyncisthe murmured as he looked _apologetically _at a crying and howling Romulus while using Romulus' broken and detached hand to caress the peacekeeper's face, "A man like you who love to hurt others; it's truly a _pity _that you can't even tolerate a drop of _my _cruelty. I suppose I should stop toying with you."

Xyncisthe ended his macabre dance of death by gorging out both eyeballs of Romulus', tore the jaws in half, punched a hole through the skull and ultimately dug for the spine and tore the spine in half. Standing alone as if he was posing with his masterpiece, Xyncisthe released a dark glorifying laughter that only a truly mad monster could. Turning very, _very _slowly, he leered at Gale who was visibly shaking and struggling to keep himself from fainting or vomiting. The intense dance of death was something he was not mentally, never mind physically, prepared for. "_You_ will taste loneliness, despair, _fear_," Xyncisthe thundered softly while fury rolled the undercurrents of his voice and Gale, "That was _just _the _appetizer. _For you, I'd prepare a special main course and you will enjoy it _immensely_."

As he returned to stand by Snow's side, his evil demeanour evaporated completely and was replaced by an impassive behaviour only a knight who is truly loyal to his king could carry. "Such a prized asset, don't you think?" Snow smiled as Xyncisthe stood rigidly by his side, "I still cannot fathom to this day, how you could have let such a powerful weapon go. Now, if you understand your predicament, stand down."

Johanna blinked when she saw the flash in the grey eyes and stared at Xyncisthe. Was it just a fragment of her imagination or did she really see the flash that seemed to tell her not to surrender? If the latter was true, could it be that Xyncisthe was still very much neutral and not at all Snow's ally and weapon? She closed her eyes briefly and breathed in. She knew Fenrir was mentally unstable and his blood lust as well as his rage was unrivalled but to see him at work was upsetting even for her. Without his unpredictable nature, he was an elite killer but add unpredictably, and he becomes a war machine that seemed too omnipotent and indestructible. Was there truly any way to stop him, forget subduing him? As far as she knew Greek mythology, Fenrir was shackled only because it allowed the Gods to shackle him but Xyncisthe..? Would Xyncisthe bow his head again and allow them to use Effie to shackle him again?

"We'll su-"

"We won't surrender, you fucking shit! We'll continue and we'll fucking kill you and your fucked up puppet, you bloody pieces of shit!" Johanna interrupted whoever with a vicious snarl and she nearly shuddered when she saw a tiny upward curl on the corner of Xyncisthe's lips. Was he amused or did he feel challenged? She could only hope that her declaration did not antagonize him but rather wake him up from the poison they were definitely pumping into him. She could only hope it was only the tracker jackers because Fenrir (or as he rather be known as Xyncisthe), she was confident would be able to fend it off himself.

"Very well, I shall release Fenrir and you will all reacquaint with fear," Snow warned as he walked away with a leash and they saw how the leash was connected to the collar around Xyncisthe's neck. How much of the Greek mythology did Snow plan to follow? _Hang in there for a little while, Xyncisthe. _

"What kind of name is Xyncisthe Viktore?" Enobaria asked after the screen was turned off and a moment of silence had passed. Trust the victors to begin any meeting with an off topic.

"Sinister victory, how fitting," Lyme chuckled as everyone in the war room faced each other, "Haymitch Abernathy... who knew you could come up with such a name? If I ever have a kid, I'm gonna ask him to name it." This made the victors howl with laughter as if everything was fine and dandy instead of dire and grim.

"We should continue our plan on the nut," Beetee sputtered between laughs and just like that, the atmosphere turned serious, "That way, we can retrieve Haymitch at the same time; no doubt, he'll be there."

"Didn't you read the tattoo on his torso? _One who kills victors_," Enobaria hissed, "He _knows _we're victors; he will hunt and kill us first!"

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you're scared," Finnick commented as he smiled charmingly at the victor from District 2, "You, who killed your enemies by biting their throats, are afraid of dying? What blasphemy!"

"It's not death I fear, it is him I fear," Enobaria retorted harshly as she glared daggers at the handsome victor, "He's creative, smart and _vicious_. It'll be a slow painful death, perhaps worse than anything the Capitol could ever come up with... and he'll _enjoy _it immensely."

"You're wrong; every time he kills or even hurts someone, a part of him slowly dies. I _see _it in his eyes, his yearning to stop," Annie spoke quietly yet there was an edge to her voice that seemed to challenge or dared anyone to interrupt her, "The poison they've been feeding him since Panem knows when, is slowly killing him from inside out but he fights the madness; he doesn't want them to win but he is losing the war. You can see the flickerings in his eyes. Haymitch, Xyncisthe, Fenrir; it doesn't matter who he wants to pretend to be but the man inside that shell is losing himself to the madness and his grasp of his reality and identity. If we don't save him now, we lose our friend, the mastermind of the rebellion and... the hope for freedom and change. We lose the chance to live a better future."

* * *

So that's it and the end of the story has been planned out; we are not too far away although there are huge gaps I haven't quite plan in detail yet. As usual, if there is anything you would like explained or further explored in detail, do alert me. If I could fit it nicely in this story, those requests will appear in here or else I would create a new story where I would upload them there. Thanks for sticking with me through this...spontaneous and impromptu chapter! Good night, I'm going to zonk out. Good day to you!


	8. Proxy Author's note

Proxy Author: On behalf of my cousin who is the author of this story, I apologize for the inconvenience. Xyn would be unable to update this story any time soon as he is fighting to live after having been implicated in a road accident three days ago, the night of August 14 when he was helping an elderly across the road. Apparently the elderly followed him to the hospital where we learnt what happened. We were talking while he was crossing the road when a car came speeding from around the corner and he had pushed the elderly out of the way.

He was telling me over the phone about the story- a possible sequel, a side story where he answers the requests and questions readers have asked regarding the life of Xyncisthe Viktore and an epilogue to tie the story neatly (if he decides not to do the sequel). To be honest, I was actually quite thrilled when he told me about it and I think you would have been too. He had scribbled about them; he had planned a lot for this story. It is quite saddening that this happened to him.

Nevertheless, God help him, I hope he recovers. As his family, I feel responsible to update you readers on the possibility of this story being temporary stopped until further notice or (unfortunately) dropped. I should think Xyn would have wanted you to know of any possible hiccups the story would have. Once again, I apologize for the unforeseeable hiccup.


	9. Chapter 7

Author's note: I know it has been an awfully long time since I last updated (nearly two weeks ago) and I apologize most ardently. I have just been transferred from the ICU to a common ward (or so my family told me). I suffer from frequent light-headedness so forgive me for the errors that escaped and for some disjointed parts. I'm still very hazy when I wrote this, medicine is killing me (the irony!). Anyway, enough about me and my pathetic self.

Thank you readers for the nice get well messages and for those who thought I am noble; I am not at all. I simply followed my instinct which was to save the old man. Oh and I thought I'd share a light tease with you; someone was saying, "Before this, you had a slim chance of dating anyone, now your chances are nil because of the stitches around your head and on your face." I think it's funny but true.

Alright, let's try to get this thing going again because I don't quite remember much without my scribbled plans so... I'm testing to see if I'm still functioning well enough to attempt to continue this or I'm way ahead of myself and attempting the foolish. Forgive me for this very, very, very short chapter.

* * *

Every third hour in the next few days was routine; they would bring him to the lab and into the tube to get his dose of _medicine_ which they called Lethe and then returned him to his private chamber to be chained and blinded in darkness. They fed him through injection and sometimes they wondered if he was conscious or he had already departed and it was only the machine and drugs that were sustaining his life.

Sometimes, they would ask and the scientists would tell them not to fret. Sometimes they wondered if their president was creating a zombie but the scientists would once again explained how the drugs would ensure he remained alive; they would sooner die than let him die.

Franck watched the experiment from afar in pity. This was the fifth time the experiment was being drowned in the strange green liquid and the statistics were being studied very religiously by the scientists. Sometimes he wondered if that thing was still human when he watched the screens glare red and the alarms ring throughout the lab, and the thrashings in the tube. He shook his head as he turned to leave; he was sick of watching them slowly turning a human into a monster. True, the man used to be a victor and then he became a vicious sadist and now, were they trying to strip him of all humanity and virtues? Is this what they called the _perfect weapon_? Perhaps so since the victors who were dubbed to be the perfect human weapons are not exactly perfect. Franck shook his head again as he tried to clear the vicious screaming that echoed in his head.

The second time they had brought Haymitch to the lab, he looked to have recovered from his despair. He looked _fine _although his eyes looked as sad as those veteran peacekeepers who had returned to nothing after they fought the war. Unlike the other times, this was the only time Haymitch donned a hospital gown and was shackle-free, and was strapped onto the bed. The man was still glaring at President Snow who was looking from the higher floor behind the glass windows; in fact, everyone who was a military high rank officer was watching the experiment from the higher floor. The scientists entered and then a small glass dome isolated a bed-strapped Haymitch from everyone. The wires came from beneath the floor and pierced the man who simply grunted but his glare did not waver the least. It was only when the experiment began that the screaming echoed through the multiple glass barriers. A scream so full of anguish and pain continued ringing endlessly as the liquid continued being pumped in.

"_Perfect_." Snow had commented as he smiled his usual courteous smile, "_Soon, very soon; you'll stand by my side as my perfect weapon_. You _will carry out my will like no other._" Franck remembered that he had frowned and then stared in mortification as President walked towards Haymitch as soon as the second session ended. President Snow had a long leash and a collar in one hand as he smiled charmingly at the pain delirious victor whose wrists and ankles were bleeding profusely from the thrashings he did while he screamed. It took everything from Franck not to vomit as he watched the sickeningly tender touches the president left on the victor; President Snow was carefully and gently putting the collar around the victor's neck. It was as tender as how a loving mother would care for her beloved child and it was creating a disgusting bile in Franck's throat. If that was all, Franck swore he would survive with mild trauma but he was so wrong.

After the collar was secured, an peacekeeper was summoned carrying a few hot burning metals. Taking the gown off, President Snow took the gleeful pleasure and branded the victor who began screaming again. As the metals burnt the skin, everyone was curious of the words that no doubt brand the victor's body. _One who kills victors, I am Xyncisthe Viktore the Fenrir. Honour bound, I am Snow's. _As President Snow reached around the victor's neck and pulled him forward, the president whispered a few words to which the victor lowered his eyes and nodded. Smiling, President Snow turned and walked away while the victor touched his new branding lightly. "_Forgive me..._" the victor muttered before he collapsed and was wheeled back into his dark prison.

Franck blinked rapidly as he leaned his head against the wall. He was panting as he relieved the memory of tortured screams and agonizing howls. It was too nightmarish and too surreal to be _real_. He was just a boy when he first entered the school to be a peacekeeper and he had followed every rule. He had behaved and talked like a peacekeeper but when the rebellion began everything seemed different. It was no longer rosy and green; somehow, everything seemed dastardly evil and tormentingly cold. As he watched his seniors delivering cold punishment on those they labelled traitors, his heart began beating frantically. Something was telling him how everything was wrong; how the things that should not be happening were happening, and how he was guilty by association. Surely he was just over-thinking it all; the Capitol _is _not wrong, it is _never _wrong but Lethe sounded so wrong.

He had taken multiple languages while he was in the military school and Lethe was one of the words he had encountered in his classes. If he still remembered, the word meant oblivion or something similar and it was the name of the drug they were feeding the victor. Haymitch Abernathy had been his childhood hero, his childhood idol but he was now the enemy and as a Capitol loyalist, it would be criminal if he tried to do anything to try and lessen the victor's pain. Franck shut his eyes tightly as he fought his internal war- home, loyalty and honour against innocence, respect and admiration. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was still something he could do for his childhood hero. It was not treason against the Capitol if he probed a little to find out what exactly Lethe does because really, who could he interest the knowledge with?

* * *

"She's still not waking?"

Effie was still in a comatose state despite them having found and retrieved her crying from somewhere near the Alps. Johanna dropped into the visitor's chair as she watched the careless rise and fall of the sleeping woman and wondered how someone as _weak willed _as her could survive for so long. An ordinary person would not have continued living after being betrayed twice by the people or rather _person _she loves. Both times, the betrayal had broken her and left her to fend for herself in Hell. When he betrayed her and left her in the Capitol to be captured and abused in the detention centre, Johanna thought the woman would never love again but Effie proved her wrong. The Capitol woman did not only forgive Haymitch his betrayal, she had even trusted him to protect and keep her safe, and loved him despite his dual personality. Then again, Effie had survived the torture the Capitol dealt and took upon herself Annie's torture so that should really tell everyone just how resilient and strong the escort of district 12 was.

"You're strong Trinks, we're _survivors_," Johanna commented as she unconsciously swept a stray strand from Effie's pale face, "Don't let them bring you down; don't let anyone break you."

"You know he didn't mean to," Finnick whispered as he stood at the foot of the bed and watched his sleeping friend. The only Capitol woman he dared to prance around nude was Effie; he knows for sure she would not fantasize or ogle him. Instead, she would reprimand and chastise him for his lack of decorum, and she would throw him a few articles of clothing that no doubt belonged to Haymitch.

In his fist he crushed the letter that was written to him. Had it not been for the letter, he doubt anyone would have found and rescued Effie and she would have probably have cried herself to death near the foot of the Alps. Finnick frowned as he glared at the crushed paper in his hand; it was dated two weeks ago. Could all this still be a calculated move? If so, what exactly is Fenrir planning? Who exactly is Fenrir's enemy? _So many questions..._

"You don't say Finn," Johanna replied quietly as she locked gazes with him, "I think we're all missing a point here. How did you know Effie was going to be there? What made you so certain?" Finnick thrust the crumpled paper to her and plopped onto the bed with a heavy sigh.

As Johanna read the letter, her eyes widened and her mouth slackened just that little bit. She was in shock but then again, there was hardly anything to be shocked of when the person concerned is Haymitch Abernathy. After all, that man as well as his other personality, were cunning and sly intellects who seemed to have planned every move.

_Odair, _

_Time is of essence and it's a luxury no one can afford to waste._

_Make haste for I cannot protect her any longer; _Dad_ is coming. I feel him._

_She'll be at the Alps, somewhere just outside the borders of District 2, in two weeks time._

_Protect her until I return and I will bring no storm._

_Regards  
_

"What exactly does he mean by this letter?" Johanna snarled as she threw the letter back at Finnick who shrugged helplessly, "That sickening fucked up bastard planned all of this! He bloody calculated every move; he _knew _he would fight for Snow in this great war! That fucking piece of fucked up shit!"

How dare he did this to them. _How dare he_! Johanna trembled at the degree of her fury as she glared at the offending item that Finnick was now smoothing out. That flash of twinkle in those grey eyes and that tiny curl of his lips- were they meant to mock her? All this time when she thought he was truly lost at sea and possibly struggling to fight for his sanity, he was actually very much sane. Was he laughing at them as he sits by Snow's side like a faithful lap dog?

"Jo, I'm sure he has a reason," Finnick placated her as he stared at both women sympathetically, "This is _Haymitch_. Since when has he done anything without plans; especially when he himself was the one who initiated the project? What more _that _victor?" Before he could react, Johanna had thrown herself forward and punched him fiercely in the face. Fury, humiliation and raw blazing hurt reflected off her face as she straddled him and glowered at him with her fist pulled back to prepare for another painful punch.

"_He's just like Snow_!" Johanna screamed into Finnick's impassive face as he readied his hands to capture her fist if she dared to rain punches on him, "We're _not _puppets to be played with! Who the fuck does he think he is?"

"Jo, that's Fenrir writing to us. After all, he was born thanks to Snow," Finnick explained quietly as if somehow the identity Fenrir and the knowledge that Fenrir did the unbelievable was a sufficient explanation, "That _person _sees and uses everyone like chess pieces. Effie is probably the King piece on his chess board- the most important person and he's doing everything to keep her protected. He probably plays the Queen piece- he is versatile and he has no qualms about going the distance to destroy all _his _enemies."

"And your King piece would be Annie?" Johanna asked quietly as she got up and returned to her seat beside Effie's bed.

"I thought that's obvious."

* * *

Time seemed to melt and the lines that used to separate each second from the next slowly melted into nothingness just as the gate that once acted as barrier between his consciousness and subconsciousness was gradually destroyed completely. As the barrier dissolved, the stronger the abyss pull. He was getting sucked into the abyss again and he wondered if it was the drugs and poisons they fed him or simply the merging of him and Xyn that was creating this ever-growing sensation.

Ever since he took Xyncisthe back, he was experiencing more and more strange memories which he concluded to be the memories of his dark self. Sometimes he wondered if Peeta's madness was the same as his- it was becoming nearly impossible to differentiate reality from lie, his memories from Xyn's memories and the lies they had stitched between the flashes of his memories. Sometimes he wondered if this was how people who were in coma felt- the believe that they are awake and living yet they seemed to have lost the psychic link to their physical body. He knows, he _feels_ them dragging and transferring him room to room but somehow, he could not see them. _Perhaps this is truly coma._

_He was falling, sinking deeper and deeper_ and he marvelled at the depth of his mind. As he descended further and further into the darker end of his mind, Haymitch felt himself grimace and cringe at the words that echoed in the darkness. Sometimes during the descend, he wondered if those words perhaps were bouncing off in his head. Dark vile insults, degrading names, hurting monikers and undignified labels continued accusing him as he delved deeper. _Griever. Sinner. Murderer. Graceless human. Heartless monster._

"Xyn, were these the words you lived with?" Haymitch whispered weakly as the words continued barrelling him from all sides as he continued drowning in the abyss, "Who else but me calls you these names? Who else _has _a _right_?"

"You don't _own_ me, Mira's Haymitch Abernathy," Xyn's cruel voice sliced through the barrier of insults and Haymitch closed his eyes tight as if that would block him from hearing the silky voice, "I'm Haymitch Abernathy the Victor; _weaklings _cannot possibly control, never mind own, me. Soon you will see _my _world. _Soon, very soon._"

"Xyn!" Haymitch roared as the crooning faded and he was again left at the mercy of those sickening accusations, "Effie, she... We-"

"There's no _we_; it has only ever been _you and I_," Xyn's harsh hiss felt like a stab in Haymitch's heart. Had he not accepted his darker self? Had they not promised to be a team? _Why_? "Don't be so naïve Mira's Haymitch Abernathy; did you think I would forget years of pain and loneliness, hatred and despair, and my vow for revenge just because you decided to accept me? Forming a team goes both ways; until I accept you as you accepted me again, there is no _we_. I promised that you'll suffer greatly for making me so _damn honourable_; now you'll pay the price."

"No..."

"As for Effie," Xyn's voice became gentle and nearly remorseful. It was the usual gentle and friendly tone he saved for Effie. "_I am _Effie's Haymitch Abernathy. She's in safe care as far as I know," Xyn continued as if he was extremely certain of his plans, "She _is _the priority in my plans; I've had it all calculated for her except for..." His voice trembled and trailed off before it returned with a sly snarl.

"While you live in _my _world, I _will _care for the body. While you suffer in my madness, _I _will carry out your wishes because I'm so _honourable_." As the vicious snarl faded, so did Xyn's presence and the darkness dissipated. Where there used to be a dark swirling endless abyss, it was now transformed into a crimson labyrinth with multiple stairways going whichever way and numerous identical doors. Instead of the silence he expected, Haymitch fell to his knees while cupping his ears to shut the screams and crying that seemed to be the overhead tune of the maze.

_I promised you Hell, Mira's Haymitch. I will give you Hell just as you brought Hell onto me. This is my world and your Hell. _

* * *

Yes, this chapter is inspired by my depressing stay in the hospital. I should hope I will return to writing soon. Next instalment, I shall endeavour to write a much, much longer chapter (hopefully as long as before). Let's all hope Proxy manages to find my scribbles and we can get this story flying (again) better than this. I'm sorry!

Take care (seriously) and good day. We shall meet again in the next instalment.

P.s. If you want to rant for this extremely short chapter, you're welcome (encouraged even) to include it in your review. If there is anything you would like to see in this story such as parts of Xyncisthe Viktore's life that you want explored or explained, please also include it in your reviews. Of course, it would be highly appreciated if there is anything you would like me to improve (pacing or increase the gore or anything), please also tell me so that I may rectify it to the best of my abilities. Thank you so much. I'm appreciative and grateful for your support!


	10. Chapter 8A

Author's note: I know I have been gone for a long while now. (Heaven forbid 3 months!) I am most apologetic. I had a most difficult and dissatisfied time writing this chapter. At first I thought I would use this opportunity to reply to the comments left for me in PM and reviews but then I thought that would be too much too long so I decided to do in parts. Upon deciding that, I got frustrated writing it since I got jumbled plots. Before I could finish writing one, another plot bunny started hopping madly and then when I paused to write the new plot, the previous plot bunny hopped away and disappeared and I'm at lost at what the plot was supposed to be. Sigh. I think this is an incapability of mine. Once again, I apologize most ardently._  
_

P.s. I'm answering all enquires about Xyncisthe's past and just send them in. I will use this...phase in the story to answer as many unless I reserved for their reveal later.

* * *

_Murderer._

As he remained crouched down and cupping his ears, Haymitch tried to concentrate on blocking the mournful cries that were mixed with screams of fear. The sad melody sang and echoed through his body and Haymitch felt, rather than hear, his blood rushing. He was choking on what, he did not know but he guessed it had to be his own saliva. Breathing was becoming too difficult despite his rationale mind assuring him that nothing physical had changed yet his lungs were heaving and becoming sluggish in their work. He was being stupid and he knows, but what else could he do under the overwhelming pressure and fear?

_Sinner._

Haymitch screamed as the words continued their merciless accusations. Years of terror, nightmares and guilt washed over him over and over and he could only curl into a tight fetal position as if that would somehow quieten the endless grieving. Haymitch did not know where his hand should be- should they cup his ears so that he could somehow blocked out a little of the haunting voices, scratch at his throat so that he may breathe easier or simply locked them around his knees so that they could better protect him from the invisible attacks and taunts of those vicious shouts?

_Help me! Someone please... End my pain!_

"Come!"

A soft pat on his shoulder but Haymitch continued huddling in his curl, screaming and crying. It took Haymitch a few minutes to realize the scene had changed. The screams had disappeared, bloody red walls disappeared and he was no longer in a massacre-like labyrinth. He was...safe. It was a bright, sunny place instead of the deathly, dark and gloomy maze.

In front of him was a vast blue sea with clear water, and a cool salty sea breeze whispered gently as it moved past him. His sweaty tangled dark blond hair ruffled gently as the wind blew and Haymitch looked around in wonder. Great spans of greenery greeted him, and in the horizon was beautiful white capped Alps. It was beautiful. Peaceful. _Gentle_ unlike the endless sorrowful harshness from before.

"How do you like this place? I love this place so much!"

Haymitch blinked and nearly jumped before he met a pair of clear teasing grey eyes. They twinkled with mirth just like the mischievous smug smile that stretched lazily across the handsome face of a young boy. He had short dark blond hair, a rather round face as befitting a child his age and short little legs. He could not possibly be older than four years of age, and while he was quite handsome, he was still quite cute and chubby.

"I... yeah I guess. Who are you?" The boy frowned but let it past as he dropped lazily onto the soft grass and patted on the space beside him. Haymitch, not knowing what else to do, sat down cautiously beside the young child.

"Why were you _there_?" the boy asked without looking at the puzzled Haymitch, and stared at the bright calm sky, "You know, it's been a long time since I last saw Honorable Xyn so furious. Last time he was raging, he nearly killed that giant...Brutus, I think. He was scary! He was a flee on sight!"

"What?" Haymitch felt his neck snapped as he stared at the boy in shock. Xyn met Brutus? When?

"You don't really remember do you?" the boy tilted his head to regard Haymitch coolly and the twinkling mirth in his eyes dimmed a little, yet Haymitch thought the boy still looked innocent despite the displeased pout, "What happened to you? Did you _forget_ yourself? How long have you _lost _yourself?"

There was no answer to that, at least Haymitch could not answer them. You cannot answer a question that you did not truly understand, can you? As the pair stared at each other in silence, the sudden distortion in the scenery caused the boy to break the eye contact, jumped to his feet and stared in wonder. His peaceful creation was gradually crumbling and the edges of the scenery was reverting back to the bloody labyrinth. As the boy walked to edge of the cliff, he watched the previously peaceful sea rage and crashed viciously against the cliff. "You want answers?"

Had Haymitch been calm, he would have throttled the boy for teasing and taunting. However, Haymitch managed a slow nod as he stood beside the little boy who grinned wistfully. "Behind every door, holds an answer and a part of the truth. Silence the grieving and listen for _his _mourning."

As the scene quickly crumbled, the boy grinned widely and held onto both of Haymitch's hands, "Seek him, find yourself and the sea will recede. Just to answer you; I am you. He is you. We are you." The boy smiled encouragingly, broke the physical contact as he chased his fading scenery and promptly disappeared leaving not a trace. Haymitch stared at the vacant spot and released a frustrated and upset growl. Was that really how he looked before he was old enough to be reaped? Was that how innocent and pure he was before the Arena corrupted him?

Haymitch stared at his hands quietly. What was there for him to say? If that was truly how innocent and mischievous he was, then indeed the question was: at what point had he lost himself? At which age did he lose this precious sense of innocence? It is truly a pity but was there truly any reason to cry for the things that have passed? What was the point of grieving for it now? Has he not mourned for his innocence long enough?

Automatically his hand reached to his face and rubbed his eyes. Funny how he did not quite remember crying but his cheeks were wet; but then again, Haymitch did not quite remember things well. He was truly a pitiful case; for him to have forgotten the boy he was and the life he had, and to remember the horrifying nightmare he created. Yes, it was his fault they died. It was his fault they were humiliated and died dishonourably. Yes, it was his weakness and incapability that brought misery onto the ones he loved. It was his fault for winning in that sly dishonourable way. It was all his fault!

If only he was stronger. If only he was much, much more capable. If only he was more honourable. If only he had these qualities when he was a tribute, then perhaps, just perhaps, he would not have caused anyone a dishonourable death.

_Don't change._

"Mira?" Haymitch looked up when he heard her sweet voice echo but he saw nothing but the endless darkness, "Mira, oh Mira. I tried. I _tried _so much, so hard. I _tried _to stay true to you." As much as he knew, his deceased girlfriend would never have wanted him to be murderer. She would probably never returned his affections again if she learnt how he used his intelligence to be a victor. She would probably have hated and scorned him like everyone else if she had a chance to meet him when he returned back to District 12. Yes, she would have detested him and he would rather die than earn her hatred. Yes, he would do everything if it meant he would never gain her scorn.

"I am not a murderer. I am not a sinner," Haymitch murmured as he tried to convince himself, "I did not kill. I am not a victor." As he continued convincing himself, he heard another person saying the same words. Looking around, he saw a younger version of him standing in front of a mirror with a glass of wine in one hand. The grey eyes were filled with despair, no doubt still mourning and grieving the lost of his loved ones; but at the same time, just beneath the blanket of sadness was a swirling fury that terrified Haymitch. The anger he saw was the kind of rage that would not be quelled and appeased until the heart forgave. It would probably still not dissipate even if the revenge had been won. It was akin to a poison that while it strengthens soul, it corrupts the soul at an unimaginable rate.

"I'm not a murderer," the teenager spoke to his reflection and his voice broke and trembled, "but you are. I'm not a sinner but you are. I am not strong but you will be. I cannot protect them but you will. I can do nothing but you will do it all. You're the sword I wield to kill those who harm them. You're the shield I carry to protect them from harm." Each word was a painful damnation on his soul and somehow Haymitch felt his heart bleeding. Each word was an agonizing reminder of his weakness and his shattered dreams yet they were the words that he clung onto to remind him who he was before the game.

As this scene faded, another one was swiftly replacing the gradual disappearance of the previous scene. This time, he was no longer in a room but outside, standing in front of the Justice Building.

* * *

_Second Quarter Quell_.

"Haymitch Abernathy."

Shock and fear burst into his mind as the young boy blinked and stared at the mayor. _No, it cannot possibly be! _As his mind tried to convince him otherwise, his body seemed to have surrender to its fate and made its way to the podium with as much dignity as a shell-shocked soldier. He looked at the crowd before him and he wondered if anyone would weep his demise should he die in the Arena. After all, this game was a little different from the rest; there were double the tributes yet the end was the same. There could only be one victor and he wondered sullenly if it would be better if he died instead of returning home.

Harshly, the peacekeepers ushered him and his fellow district 12 tributes into the mayor house. Quietly, he sat by the window and allowed his mind to slowly recompose and calm down. It would not do if he was panicking although it would be definitely be reasonable. After all, he was a sheep being sent to the slaughter house. "Haymitch?" His head snapped and he turned to look at the door. His girlfriend was standing at the doorway with his younger brother, Dominique, and his mother. Oh, the only three people who mattered; no one else belonged to his world or life.

"Bro, you'll win, won't you?" Dom asked as he approached his smart older brother, "You won't surrender to them, yes?" Haymitch simply stared at his younger brother. He wanted to lie, truly he did, but fear was making it impossible. This was unlike all their misadventure whereby he would always somehow find a way back home with Dom in tow. This was a kill or be killed massacre unlike their aimless exploration into the 'unknown' lands; this was a mission that dabbled directly with death.

"I don't know Dom," Haymitch murmured as he looked away from the misty eyes of his loved ones, "I... This is so... I just don't know, Dom."

A comforting hand patted his head before it ruffled his shaggy long hair. Haymitch closed his eyes as he waited for the pair of arms to curl around him. Held in his mother's arms, enveloped in her warmth, he greedily soaked in her comfort and affections. There was no need for her to say a thing because everything she needed to say, he felt it in her embrace. Pressed into her bosom, he breathed in his mother's scent. "My little boy," his mother whispered and Haymitch felt her whisper instead of hearing it, "You are strong. Don't let them break you." When she slowly withdrew, he nearly chased after the protective arms and almost cried when a heavy realization dawned onto him. That would be the last embrace he shared with her no matter the outcome because today was the last day he belonged to her; the Capitol would own him and he would at their mercy.

When his mother pulled Dom away gently, both of them smiled sadly at him and sent him a flying kiss of farewell and good luck. Silence waned on even after the door closed after the pair and Haymitch looked at his girlfriend as calmly as a criminal waiting in the gallows. "Mira?" he called softly as he reached to gently tug onto her two arms and invite her to seat beside him, "Love, say something please." Instead of saying, she flung herself into his arms and cried on his shoulder. Her arms gripped his body tightly; one hand curled around his neck while the other wrapped around his torso. Hot tears wet his shoulder and Haymitch continued holding her to him as she cried hard.

In between sobs, she managed a few coherent words, "Come back, won't you?" He nodded and pledged her an empty promise. They should have known better; District 12 had close to zero chances of bringing home a victor.

The most recent victor was Andrea Alonso of the 25th Hunger Games. Andrea was the victor of the First Quarter Quell and he was quick to eliminate all the other tributes within the first 36 hours. Many dubbed him as Andrea Alonso the Deranged Slayer. He survived the Cornucopia whereby he and the Careers had eradicated fifteen other tributes before they fled into the surrounding forest. It was in the forest where he delved into his madness and went after everything that moved like a rabbit dog. There was absolutely nothing he spared and even after the game was over, Andrea remained a mad man- he massacred everyone who came within a metre and later he was put down like an animal.

"If I..."

"No, Haymitch," she withdrew from the embrace and stared at him in the eye, "You _will _come back."

He chuckled bitterly and nodded. "If I come back changed, will you still..?"

She stared at him and moved away. Stretching his hand to her, Haymitch felt hope blossomed in his chest. There was a chance and he would be a fool not to take it. Waiting for her felt like he was waiting an eternity in the galaxy. Suffocating, breathless but still very much hopeful. She blinked, shook her head and retreated towards the door...and Haymitch's outstretched hand fell limp beside him. "I... can't."

Looking onto the floor, Haymitch willed himself not to cry and fake a gleeful smile. "Then I won't change." To this, she smiled, nodded and fled the room leaving the tribute on his own.

As the scene shrunk, it moved further away and soon faded into the enveloping darkness. Haymitch fell onto fours as he panted heavily. Rocking back, he sat down and pulled his knees up. Tears slid the sides of his face freely.

Long ago he was a handsome young teen with a bright future. He was the smartest in the Seam, the bravest and the most handsome. His grey eyes used to twinkle with confidence and his every step burst with arrogance and bravery. He did not slouch nor did he saunter as he did nowadays; he used to swagger and stride. He used to be polite and gracious despite his rowdy behaviour and mischievous streaks; not at all like the current him. Where did all his qualities disappear to? As he cried, he wondered who and what he was mourning for.

In his endeavour to keep true to the boy he once was, he had degraded himself and became a shadow of his former self. He had not only lose the youthful vigour and the innocence that came along, but he had lost respect for himself. He had lost everything in his insistence to remain the boy Mira loved.

"Why?"

_Because you're weak; you've cast yourself aside. Foolish weak little boy. _

"Xyn?"

A ghostly figure of Xyncisthe Viktore appeared before him and Haymitch looked up pleadingly at him. A cruel smirk stretched across the porcelain face, and a cunning and sly aura seemed to bleed through the menacing figure. His eyes though were the scariest of all of his features- they were piercing and bottomless grey eyes which seemed to glare fiercely and coldly at Haymitch.

"Foolish little one," the ghost spat as the hand reached to choke Haymitch. Although the hand had only virtually held his throat, Haymitch felt the crushing of his windpipe and he was suffocating and fighting to breathe. "Run... Run like a weak little lamb. Be the prey when you were born a predator."

As the ghost dissolved into tiny speaks of white dust, the little boy's words echoed in the empty darkness. _Behind every door, holds an answer and a part of the truth. Silence the grieving and listen for _his_ mourning. _Wondering where he summoned the strength, he pushed himself off the ground as he vowed to learn as much as possible before the time ran out. He _needed _to find himself before he could save himself. "Just a little longer Xyn," Haymitch gritted his teeth as he forced himself to continue onwards, "I'm going to end your misery."

* * *

Haymitch walked past a few doors steadily despite the ongoing mournful orchestra. Suddenly, he stopped in front of a door and his hand curled around the knob before he was even sure what had happened. He found himself tensing up and breathing in deeply before he turned the knob to view one of Xyncisthe Viktore's memories. As he

stepped into the room, he made sure he was standing near the entrance and squinted into the darkness. Slowly just like the room he visited before, the darkness was swirling away and Haymitch found himself at a party.

The music played softly in the background as the Capitolians glided carelessly yet gracefully across the floor. The men were in their crisp tuxedos and flashing their charismatic debonair smile while the ladies were in their evening gowns with their sultry smiles. Needless to say, this was an exclusive party where everyone who was serving in Coriolanus Snow's private circle of friends was cordially invited. Haymitch walked further into the memory and he learnt from the previous room that no one could touch him and vice versa.

As he surveyed the room, he noticed the lack of refreshments. The party was not frivolous and neither were the people; no one in the room was a common, ignorant and mindless Capitolian. Haymitch frowned as he took extra note of the faces; there was none that he recognized except the president himself. Who were these people?

Suddenly, everyone had stopped talking and were looking at him as if they could really see him. Instead of the usual grimaces and faces of disdain that he usually received at the parties that were held during the Hunger Games period, these faces were in awe and adoration. He knew the look; it was the same look they gave Finnick Odair except perhaps these eyes were more than lustful. They did not simply crave and sought him, they wanted to tame and control him. They wanted him. Turning swiftly, he retracted his steps and returned to walking by the walls yet he noticed how they were still staring at the spot he just vacated. Soon, they were reaching out to the air and Haymitch shuddered.

"These are Xyn's memories," Haymitch reminded himself as he continued to seek the clock like before, "Was he... Was I a stud?" The nagging feeling would not leave despite his efforts of forcing himself to look forward and stopping himself from turning back. He would not for fear of seeing what exactly his other- "No, we are one," he reminded himself as he tried to remember that Xyn was him instead of a dark entity that he did not know, "He is me just as I am him. I must open my heart to him. I must accept his memories as mine."

He stopped in his tracks and slowly turned to look back. He braced himself for the disgust and bile that rose in his throat as the scene played as he thought it would. The women were already circling him like vultures around a carcass; their hands leaving fleeting _tantalizing _touches and their smiles sly and sultry. The men left brief yearning touches and spontaneously took the gloved hand and placed quick chaste kisses on the palm. Eyes so vile smiled gleefully at the cold aristocrat.

"_Viktore..._" they breathed his name like a longing sigh of a lover, "_So handsome. So masculine. So beautiful. So _perfect." As they continued to invade his personal space to gently feel him in places that were supposed to be considered sacred and private, Haymitch fought a vicious war to keep the bile from rising.

If his alter ego could survive this, he certainly could. They were in the same body; and technically, they _should _have the same memories. As he watched the sickening scene unfold, Haymitch could only beg his alter ego for forgiveness. _Forgive me Xyn for putting you through Hell._

* * *

As Haymitch struggled in Hell, Xyncisthe was smirking in his cell. _Lethe_. How subtle a name, Xyncisthe thought sullenly as he sat in the darkness, but it will not touch my memories. I will not allow it!

"_Breathe,"_ Xyncisthe commanded himself as another round of drowning in that green liquid ended, "_Honour. Promise._" As he curled his hands into fists, he nearly smiled when he felt the prickling pain. _He was still alive, still in control._ He sighed softly as he craned his neck to search for a drop of moonlight and hung his head when he found none. Was this darkness the same darkness that embraced Effie while they held her hostage? _Oh Effie._

Xyncisthe shook his head as he forced himself not to grieve. He had done what he had promised to and he would continue to be honourable simply because he was engineered to be. Would she read the letter he wrote her? Had she crushed and burnt the letter? Was she still crying or was she awake with a broken heart? Xyn growled softly and helplessly. Why did he have to be the one who betrayed her? Why did he have to be cursed with such misfortune? _Forgive me Effie. _

The only one who was beautiful on the inside and downright sexy on the outside, and who would snuggle by his side comfortably. She was the only one who did not sought sexual comfort from him and certainly did not possess any intention of taming and controlling him. She was the only one who did not fear him when the other victors had edged away; she had touched him while he was riding his rage and she dared to comfort him when he could have easily crushed and killed her without remorse.

It was probably around his last few years or perhaps even his last year. Johanna was the victor of that year, everyone was at her victory ball. Well, everyone who was an escort, a mentor, a notable gamemaker, the president and well... In short, everyone who was a huge figure for the games was in attendance. He had attended it instead of Haymitch but some time along the party, he had retired and Haymitch easily took over. What happened next was a blur, no thanks to Haymitch uncontrollable thirst for liquor and alcohol.

Xyncisthe however remembered Brutus cornering a young woman. Effie had intervened, telling Brutus that his conduct was not befitting a gentleman and where his decorum and sense of propriety was. She continued lecturing and had effectively allowed the young woman to escape. Brutus, being the hardened warrior, sneered at Effie and insulted her with names that really should not be associated with such a beautiful woman. If it had ended just there, Xyncisthe was sure Haymitch would have been enough but that shameless brute decided to take his rage out on an unarmed woman.

(Then again, Effie probably only needed her mouth as a weapon and this thought made Xyncisthe release a soft chuckle.)

It was the 71st Victor Tour and everyone was congratulating District 7 newest victor, Johanna Mason. The young woman had given the vibe of an innocent girl who could do no wrong and was certainly not a threat. Everyone, or rather all the tributes, were fooled into believing her act and it was only during the climax of the games when she had shed her facade and shown her true nature. She was a vicious hunter, and she wielded the axe like a professional lumberman would.

Anyway, it was already nearing midnight of the final day of the Victory Tour and the usual Victory Ball was held at the esteemed president's manor. Everyone who was somebody in the Games was invited, or rather forced to make an appearance. The escorts in their garish or perhaps very _fashionable _dresses, the gamemakers in their very _tasteful _Tuxedos, the victors from previous years were in their...own appropriate attires and of course the newest young woman to join the elites, Johanna Mason. She looked unlike Annie Cresta at all; she was not petrified, whimpering and Panem forbid, mad at all! In fact, Johanna had looked every inch like any of the careers who had presumably chosen to embrace the less...compassionate side.

As the night wore on, the music was much more softly whispering in the background and the dance floor was a lot emptier than before. It is no surprised that there were at least two drunk victors slouched in a corner and creating a ruckus of some kind. Effie was not particularly impressed that her own victor was one of them who was openly creating scene by shouting at the top of his voice how terribly pathetic Capitolians are that they were drinking _alcoholic _drinks that contain barely to not a drop of alcohol. However, Effie had more pressing problems in her hands than to throttle and discipline her over-the-edge victor. There was simply no talking sense to him when he was far too gone; the only way was to knock him out and that can wait.

Effie narrowed her eyes as she strode towards the unbelievably huge man and whimpering little miss. If there was anything she would never tolerate, it was the lack of decorum and sense of propriety shown by any man. Women, no matter from the districts or Capitol, did not deserve to be treated like rags and beaten to submission by the physically stronger gender. Women deserved to be treasured and cherished, treated with respect and care, even if they are victors who went insane, innocent children or...as Haymitch loves to insult, "ignorant, frivolous, vile clown-faces."

So, when she saw how the victor from District 2 was cornering her fellow Capitolian, one can imagine how antagonized she felt. She marched up to the victor, tapped his shoulder impatiently and rather painfully with her manicured nails. She waited in her killed heels as he slowly turned bored to look at her. His eyes blinked in surprised before it narrowed and gleamed in malicious intent but the escort of District 12 would not be deterred. "What?" his snarled as rudeness overflowed in the snarl of that single word.

"_What?_" Effie repeated exasperated as she pinched the bridge of her nose to quell the bursting anger that no doubt would be shown across her countenance soon if she did not school her features, "_You _are asking me what?" When Brutus continued to glare at her, she breathed in and in a very controlled voice, she demanded, "Release her."

"And I will be fucking you then?"

"Do not be so crude, Brutus Jamere!" she spat as she stepped closer to the giant, raised her chin in defiance and glared frostily at him. It was a sight really; she was shorter than him even in heels and so when she tried to have a stare-down with him, it was quite cute if one did not actually know the raging tempers going on. "Where is your sense of decorum? This is not how you talk to a lady, Brutus or has your mother and lady associates never teach you? You do not, and I repeat do not, ever speak to any lady this way."

Immediately, she felt a strong hand clasped on her chin and tilted her face up so that he could sneer at her cold glaring face. As he growled into her face that was inches from his own face, "I will talk to any fucking woman the way I fucking want. You will fucking not stand in my way."

Effie nearly matched his rage with her own. How dare he! He is not the only victor in the room and while Haymitch may be inebriated, her victor will not be forgiving of anyone who manhandled her. So in a spur of moment, she sneered into his face, "Or what?" Due to their close proximity, she might have unwittingly and certainly unconsciously (since ladies do not spit ever) spat at him.

Furious, he swatted the spatter of saliva off his cheek and raised his hand. The limb moved faster than her eyes saw and she stumbled with a bubble of air escaping lungs. It felt as if the slap should have been a much stronger force that would have knocked her out but instead she merely stumbled backwards and felt the air knocked out of her. Touching her cheek where Brutus' hand had grazed her, she turned and was surprised to see the back black jacket of her victor...

Xyncisthe remembered that he immediately took control (Panem knew how) and then it was a blur again before he felt Effie touching his arm and telling him to breathe. He remembered that and then... Nothing.

Xyncisthe frowned as he tried to recall that event. Johanna's victory. 71st Hunger Games Victory. Brutus. Effie. Rage. And..? Xyn could feel his brain gears spinning quickly as he tried his hardest. Something was wrong. He cannot remember. He was forgetting. Why..? _Lethe! _

"No..." he quietly denied as he fought his growing panic, "It cannot be. My memories... They cannot disappear!" As his panic grew, Xyncisthe wondered how quickly the poison would erase his memories and therefore his existence. _I am only as real as my memories. _As he struggled to cope and silence his panic, realization was quickly and forcefully knocking on him. Over the last few rounds, they had been increasing the potency and he knew that but nothing could have prepared him for the effects of that poison. Of course, as powerful as he would like to believe himself to be, even he is not immune to everything. He would sooner force the body to die than lose his memories.

_I will not fade. Forgive me, forget me not. Hurry..._

* * *

Haymitch had given up trying to keep track of the time in the bloody place. So far, he had visited more than thirty rooms and he had yet to find the beginning of Xyncisthe Viktore. He had most certainly picked up valuable information such as some of the wicked things he had done while he was channelling Xyncisthe and the horrors of knowing his body had been abused. He took comfort in the matter that Xyncisthe had disposed those abusers in the most cruel ways; it was a shrewd comfort that he found satisfaction in.

Haymitch realized that the more doors he opened, the more he understood that he was not as drunk as people thought him to be. It was only when he was too far inebriated that his guard was weakened and he could easily channel Xyncisthe and go about his wicked business.

"Xyncisthe...Help me, help you," Haymitch muttered as he stumbled forward weakly to the next door, "Help me find you please. We can end this misery before it ends. I can heal you...you can heal me." He turned the door knob and was surprised to see Wiress smiling sadly at him.

"Wiress, how are you my dear?" Haymitch stepped to the side so he could watch Xyncisthe greeting the woman and placing a chaste kiss on each of her cheeks, "I hope they are treating you well."

She nodded and hugged Xyncisthe gently, patted his hair gently and then on the seat nearby. As soon as he sat comfortably, she opened a briefcase with all the medical equipment: scalpels, telescopes, bottles of medication, bandages and gauze, alcohol tacks and many others. Xyncisthe eyed them wearily, sighed, took off his shirt and surrendered himself to her. "Do whatever is necessary," he purred to encourage her, "This will come useful when the time comes; if I do not remember myself at least the body does, and perhaps he might...one day."

"You are most tortured, little one," Wiress mumbled as she took the scalpel and opened a slit just beneath his last left rib, "You know he might never learn of you yet how can you be so optimistic? You are what he is not...so, why is a victor so optimistic?"

He laughed softly yet bitterly and sorrowfully. Haymitch cringed when he heard the laughter that was akin to a madman's laughter. "If I am not, who will be? I dream of..."

"When we become victors, there is no such thing as dreams, Xyncisthe," a low voice rolled into the room and Chaff came into the light, "We are no longer human. We have no humanity, no innocence."

"You may not dream, Chaff but I do; I dream of a future. A possibility of freedom," Xyncisthe whispered as Wiress started poking him with needles and pumping in fluids as well as collecting his blood. When he noticed Chaff was about to retort, he smiled ruefully, "No doubt the path to freedom will be marred with obstacles, pain and death but everything requires a price. Surely you understand equal and fair trade?"

"You are not at all like him," Chaff noted with a snort as he fall unceremoniously into another chair but he continued watching the younger man, "You are darker, you are more ruthless and vicious yet you have a certain light about you. You strive to survive, you fight to survive but he... he floats aimlessly, lost at sea. You dream his lost dreams; how miserable your life is. I sympathize, truly I do."

"Say what you will Chaff," Xyncisthe drawled as he watched intrigued as Wiress began to poke and prod at his injuries before she stitched them quickly, "I will rescue from drowning. I will find him because I live only for him. I live because he lives, and in a shrewd way, he lives because I live. I will be and I will certainly do everything he wants me to."

"You're his other personality yet you are enslaved," Chaff laughed for a long while clutching his side before he forcefully recomposed and sneered, "You are nothing but a fragment of his imagination."

"I am not simply an imagination!" Xyncisthe roared. If it were not for the tubes and machineries that were connected to his body and Wiress strapping him to the seat, he would have lunged forward and tore viciously as the victor of District 11. "You will rue the day you ridicule me, Chaff Langdon. You do not..."Xyncisthe panted heavily as his grey eyes turned bloodshot as he glared at the laughing and sneering victor, "You do not know the extend of my viciousness. I will show you and the whole of Panem how vicious Xyncisthe Viktore, Viscount of Kausitus can truly be. Provoke me further if you dare, humble victor of 45th Hunger Games; your feats are nowhere as devastatingly cruel and malicious as mine but you are more than welcome to pit your skills against mine." His thin lips curled into one of the darkest and most cruel of feral smirk Haymitch had ever seen. Chaff paled noticeably and for the rest of the extended silence, the older victor kept quiet and intentionally looked everywhere but at the hauntingly evil face.

After a moment, he blinked slowly and turned his attention to Wiress who was removing the tubes and needles and disconnecting the machines. "Thank you my dear," Xyncisthe smiled kindly and pecked both her cheeks before he cast a sidelong sneering glance at the fidgeting Chaff, "You'll do something about him, won't you?" When she nodded, Xyncisthe nodded, bowed and left the room.

Haymitch stumbled backwards and fell down on his rear as he soon realized the reason why Chaff never dared to really test his patience. His friend might have come close to stroking his anger, might have riled him up but Chaff had always stepped away as soon as Haymitch warned him not to provoke him anymore. It could be at those moments that it was Xyncisthe who was smirking from beneath the surface and Chaff could somehow sense the sinister man. Haymitch wiped the sweat off his forehead and breathed deeply, and actually allowed a smile to grace his lips. Xyncisthe is actually a good person he created; if it was not for Xyncisthe then perhaps, Chaff and him would have fought to the death with each other since they did not really got off on the right foot. "Thank you Xyncisthe, my other half." Standing up, he walked out of the now black room and closed the door after him. Yes, Xyncisthe might have been created on the spur and from his hatred, but he is not all evil. _Xyncisthe, I'll find you. Please let there be enough time. _

* * *

Please review and for those who have waited for so long and believed I gave up on this story, forgive me. Scold me if it would appease you but I am most apologetic!

About Brutus Jamere and Chaff Langdon, their last names were simply a spur in the moment when I wrote this chapter. However, if any of you happen to know their real names, do tell. Thanks!

Take care, and good day all!


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